Chapter Two
Day 1255 - Hour 06:00
BZZZZZ.
The sound is obnoxiously loud, and it almost throws Hermione off balance as it rings out. There are two guards flanking her, standing annoyingly close. She picks up her pace as the barbed-fence slides open. The men have a tight grip on their wand, the other hand grasping something towards the back of their trousers.
She walks in silence, passing even more security who seem to be holding- wait, are those guns? Her pulse picks up, she faces forward and trudges on. It's better not to ask questions.
BZZZZZ.
She wishes the damned building would stop making that god-awful noise every time she approaches, but this time she's come to a set of thick metal doors. She stops, beginning to count her breathing. One.. two… thr.. "Name?" a crackled voice rings out, interrupting her.
"Gr-" she begins, stops, coughs. "Sorry, Monica Dawn."
The intercom clicks off within an instant, and she re-adjusts the strap of her bag before picking at the sleeve of her outer robes. She can feel the slight bulging of her wand tip pressing on her pulsepoint, and the sensation helps to put her at ease. A bit, anyway.
"Password?"
Hermione's brain blanks. "Oh, hold on…" she says as she hurriedly plunges her hands into her pockets and fumbles with the small slip of paper. "Purp...Purple parsley?"
"Are you asking or telling me?" the voice responds immediately, as if whoever stood on the other side was waiting, ready to pounce at her tone. American prick.
"Telling." she snips back.
The intercom clicks off once again, and there's silence for a beat. The witch gestures to the pocket of her robes in an attempt to shove the parchment back in, but the biting sting of the paper disintegrating between her fingers makes her jump. She looks to the guard on her left as he locks eyes, he softly shakes his head, not uttering a word. Biting her tongue in annoyance, Hermione's cheeks flame red as she checks for a watch she doesn't own.
BZZZZZZ.
She jumps for a second time, eyes clenched tight in annoyance. She tilts her head.
The door unlatches, one of the guards pushes past, leading her into a dingy hallway.
Overhead are a scattered amount of fluorescent bulbs, half flickering, a quarter gone out completely. The floor looks scrubbed well enough, but there's grime around the edges. A certain sort that she knows will never get clean. Not without magic, at least.
The sound of their footsteps echo from wall to wall as the group approaches the small barred window at the end of the hallway. A friendly looking woman meets Hermione's gaze from beyond it, the guard to her left grips her elbow and gives it a squeeze. A silent demand to stay quiet.
"Booking." He says, voice deep and sleep deprived, yet authoritative. He coughs.
The woman looks back at Hermione, her eyes inquisitive as she looks her from head-to-toe. "ID number?" she drones out, notably biting her tongue.
"Inmate 41387"
Day 1246 - Hour 16:00
Hermione is de-loused and strip searched. Invasive and dehumanizing, the young witch takes it in stride, counting her breaths and allowing herself to dissociate. She keeps her wand close, stuck down her forearm and concealed.
Disheveled and impatient, Hermione only once glares daggers at the guard handing her what looked to be blood-red scrubs to put on, a thick padded patch reading "INMATE" in bold black font across the chest and back.
He smiles.
She scoffs, eventually obliging in the outfit change, and soon allows herself to settle into the small cot at the back of the concrete cell she's been put in. She idly wonders to herself if she would be so willing under different circumstances. A fleeting thought, as "what if" theories usually turn very grim, very quickly.
She's been given some bread and a thin soup, which is scarfed down quickly to soothe her aching stomach. It's been years since she's eaten anything she didn't have to kill first herself. It's a welcome change, albeit a guilty one. Everyone back at camp is no doubt feasting on squirrel carcasses, or munching on berries. Food rations are scarce.
A sluggish exhaustion takes over her, arms beginning to feel heavy. It's as if she's spent the last several hours holding her organs in a bowl, outstretched from her body. Her lids begin closing upon protest, but only a moment of panic sets in before the witch slides comfortably into the silent, dreamless nothingness that awaits her embrace.
Day 1248 - Hour 01:00
"Hermione?"
Out of the nothingness comes a brilliant white light. A voice beckons her forth, and she shuffles towards it, scuffing her feet.
"Hermione Granger?" It speaks again, soft and lulling, with an underlying force of demand. The light dims as she nears, flickers for several beats before shining even brighter. She hesitates, squinting as she's engulfed.
Her hearing tunnels, and within minutes new sounds begin sweeping in waves. A steady beeping that, if she thinks hard enough, realizes must have been there for quite some time now. There's a finger pressed firmly against her inner wrist, and it takes almost all of her energy to try and twist out from the grip. She groans.
"I've got movement, heart rate has elevated—"
Who?
"—increased chance of hypoxia. We'll need to get her labs before—"
Woman's voice. Sounds older. Maybe 60s. Wait… Hypoxia?
"—frey needs to be let go. Seriously, any additional drop could have caused—"
She groans again.
"Is.. is she awake? Hermione?"
Her eyes open slowly, but the fluorescent bulbs above prove to render her blind. She squints. "'Can—" she begins to say, but her throat is on fire. Flames lick their way up, tugging at her vocal chords. She coughs. Once, twice, and again.
"Agnes, get some water." There's a rush, she can hear it in her voice, an urgency thinly masked. Hands are on her shoulders, and Hermione wants to bat them away, but suddenly she's sitting up and they're gone, her head spins.
"Hermione Granger?" The first voice says again, as she now feels someone clasping a small styrofoam cup to her hands. Is… is she in a hospital? A muggle hospital? The beeping brings her clarity, a heart monitor.
The only thing that comes out is a choppy "yes", ringing out in broken whispers. Groggily, she brings the cup to her mouth and gulps down the cool liquid.
"Where am I?" She chokes out.
Her eyes are open now, but everything is blurry. All she sees is colours, smeared haphazardly across the feathered canvas that is her vision.
"Don't strain yourself, dear..." One of the blobs says, a new voice, soothingly pushing her back against the cot. Hermione bats the arm away, her upper body swaying. "We'll get to all that, but first I need to do a few tests. Do you think you can handle that?"
"What happened?"
A soft pat on the wrist, "All in good time, Dear. Now tell me… what year is it?"
Day 1248 - Hour 14:00
The room is white, the smell of sterilization is overwhelming, it overtakes her head. The cot beneath her is thin, and it's the only thing in the room. The walls are also padded, but she sits patiently, trying not to overthink.
A knock at the door sounds. It's feather light, but to her it sounds like thunder. Angry.
"Miss Granger?" A voice calls out, male this time.
Her eyes flick to the turning handle, and before she knows it, Kingsley Shacklebolt is standing before her. He's aged a bit, crows feet and forehead wrinkles. Salted hair feathers his temples. He's clean shaven, though. Something rarely seen on male order members as of late, and he looks freshly showered.
Her brows knit, his mouth tugs in a polite smile. "I'm glad to see you're awake."
Kingsley eyes her in silence before withdrawing a wand, conjuring a small stool from thin air. She waits as he sits, positioning himself before his eyes meet her again. Eyes flick to the door, then back to him.
"They're not muggles," he states flatly, almost as if reading her mind. "We're at the Entrypointe. You're in the hospital wing."
Instinctively she looks around, as if the new information will suddenly make her see the room differently. Nope, still the same white padded walls. Same thin cot, too. She shifts.
"I don't understand," Hermione manages, voice horse. She clears her throat. "The prison…"
The false minister's eyes soften and he nods upwards. "We're beneath it. And... as far as the muggles are concerned, you are simply Monica Dawn, inmate number 41387, arrested on high profile world-wide terrorism charge."
She nods. "I was drugged for transport."
The answer comes too easily to her. A sharpness she hasn't seen in ages. A grunt acknowledges her.
"The guard that admitted you is being obliviated and transferred later tonight. The overdose didn't seem intentional, but we take no chances." Kingsley is cool and calm, eyes giving way to no emotion as he regards her.
"So what do you need with me?"
His face is stone as he looks at her, and she briefly wonders if he's going to give her the run-around. The nurses seemed awful adept at it, why shouldn't he be?
"We need you for the defects," he finally spits out, offering no additional information beyond that.
She's heard about the defects, but before now never paid them much mind. Rumors of all sorts echo throughout the order, but to live as though they have any factual sustenance could be dangerous… depending on the rumor.
As Voldemort's strength grows, more fear is pumped throughout the masses. Public pressure to choose a side is at an all-time high, and, well… who would choose the losing side? Truth is bitter, and the taste of it fills her mouth to the brim.
"Why me?" her tone is acid, but she quickly transforms her face into one of cool ease. Kingsley's eyes flick to her. He smirks for a beat before it falls, a mask of sincerity.
"Because we can't afford any more mistakes."
Day 1250 - Hour 15:00
Hermione is being released from the hospital today. What could have taken a mediwitch a day to do under normal circumstances, took these healers a solid three. With potion ingredients scarce and access to supplies limited, they seem to have implemented a hybrid of muggle medicine and magic in one. It slows them down, but keeps people alive, so who can really complain?
Well, possibly Gerald Marley. The boy down a few doors has been moaning for several days, much to her dismay. Okay, yes, splicing yourself straight at the thigh might hurt quite a bit, but the constant screaming for hours on end is grating her already thin nerves. Silencing charms have helped, but having them wear off at god-knows-what-time in the morning is never a pleasant way to wake up.
The thought immediately brings her guilt. She glances down to her hands, picking at the hem of her jumper.
Dark circles and thick bags sit prominently beneath her eyes. Her hair, although now cut to her chin, is a knotted mess, and her muscles ache something fierce. She stares at the witch behind the desk through hooded lids, clearing her throat now and again in a desperate attempt to help rush along the paperwork.
It's an odd sort of place to be in, the Entrypointe. If not for the dead-eyed people surrounding her, one would never know the horrid destruction that took place outside its very walls. Whoever constructed the place seems to be a master in charms unlike any other she's seen. There's an illusion of the outside. A charming little town located conveniently right beneath a sodding prison.
What a world.
She glances out the window, her mind's eye briefly flickering, watching as the scene turns from a lovely garden to a fire-ridden war zone. Ashes fall, screams ignite, her breathing quickens.
"Take two a day until your pain goes down. If you have any left, try and bring—"
"What are these for?" Hermione asks, thrust from her thoughts. Her brow furrows as she glances at the pill bottle sat before her, then back to the dark-haired woman standing in front of her.
The healer studders, seemingly taken off guard by the abrupt questioning. "They're pain pills," she finally answers. It sounds more like a question. "I know tablets aren't nearly as potent as potions, but unfortunately we're in short supply. Even muggle medication has its limits."
Hermione nods her head, half-heartedly disregarding the current information to get to the point. "To which pain are you referring?"
The mediwitch looks at her quizzically, "You had several broken bones and torn ligaments when you arrived, Miss Granger. They've aged, mind you, but the heal jobs were shotty at best, and I do believe—"
Gerald's screams echo down the hall, bouncing off of the linoleum flooring and flat, blank walls. Her stomach churns.
"Are you," Hermione's voice rises a few octaves, " Or are you not in short supply of these things, Ms…"
"Narian, ma'am. And yes, we are, but I'm under strict orders to make sure you receive them."
"From who?"
At this point, the healer seems tired of dealing with the young Muggleborn. A part of Hermione feels bad for giving the woman a rough go. Yet another part, a much more dominant part, is incredibly irritated at receiving specialized treatment. Her pain, or lack thereof, is her business. Not the business of—
"Kingsley Shacklebolt."
Bingo.
Day 1250 - Hour 16:00
A door slams, dark eyes snap to her. She's attempting to conceal her anger, wants to stifle the feeling of invasion, shove it deep inside herself and swallow it whole. Her arms wobble as Kingsley watches her with his typical mask of cool ease. She tosses the orange bottle to the bin, just a few paces away. It makes a loud clunk, telling her she's met her mark.
The gesture is symbolic, of course.
His gaze travels, following the bottle, then back to her. He waits, silently, hoping for her to speak but she says nothing. Only laboured breathing occupies the room from her end. She won't break, she convinces herself. She'll blast a hole through the charmed sky and climb through the shattered remains, fleeing to Voldemort himself before she gives in.
He's noticed. His face relaxes, and he gestures to the chair sat before his desk. The young witch obliges, digging fingernails into her palm to keep herself grounded. "'I didn't mean to impose, Miss Granger," he says, eyes softening.
"But you did," there's ice to her tone. Finality. It's clearly caught the Minister off guard, which surprises her. Shacklebolt is a man of both too many words, and too few. He confidently adapts to whoever he's speaking, morphing himself into what's required. There's been speculation of legilimency, but Hermione knows that's not the case. No, she suspects a calm demeanor, the impeccable talent of detecting body language, and intuition. But right now, she requires his acceptance, and like clockwork, that's what he provides.
"Duly noted."
Her shoulders relax a bit, she chews the side of her mouth and averts her eyes. "I expect no special treatment. If the rest of the order goes with less, so do I."
He nods. A silent agreement, one she hopes he keeps.
Standing from the desk, he glides to the bin and plucks the medication off the top. He gives it one small shake before setting it down. Out of the way. Forgotten. "I'm glad you're here. We need to discuss your first case."
She snorts at the verbiage. He's acting as though Hermione is beginning her first day of work at the Ministry, and not in an underground bunker; hiding out as her loved ones fight for their lives in the field. Surely he's aware of how asinine it sounds, but time is of the essence, at least she supposes. "We have a prisoner—"
"Prisoner? I was made aware I was working with defects."
"And you will be, but this is a special case. One that will most likely be very challenging and extremely labour intensive. They've been in our care for well over two months now, and have yet to utter a single word."
"Veritaserum?"
"Seems to have no effect," he drawls. "Our best guess is that he's worked up a tolerance. Whether it's been done purposefully or not has yet to be determined."
Hermione flicks a brow, "Imperious?"
"Resistant almost entirely. Farthest we've gotten is a few grunts and strains, nothing of any use, of course."
She follows up with a sigh, the pieces clicking together. "So I'm guessing he's particularly skilled at Occlumency."
It's not a question. She doesn't even need the validation of such a claim. After years on the run, Hermione herself has become— as some say— a gifted witch when it comes to mind and memory magic. Not something that's come naturally to her, it's a learned skill, one of which requires constant upkeep, if not inborn.
"The Entrypointe has some of society's best curse breakers and memory hackers," she draws. "Surely—"
"This is different," he cuts in. "He's a natural occlumens, one that's been in the tight ring of his circle since childhood. His inborn abilities have only strengthened by age and training from the best of their side."
"I'm failing to see your logic here, Minister."
"We need someone with a talent for mind magicks, that will ensure his sanity remains intact. One misslip could throw the entire operation. We need someone who knows him from a time in which he had been at his weakest..."
The last piece of the puzzle falls into place. Her vision tunnels, a lump forms in her throat. Amber eyes meet coal, her lids widening. The earth feels like it's swirling.
Kingsley closes the gap between them, resting his hand atop her shoulder, steadying her as he opens his mouth to answer her much-needed validation.
"Hermione… we have Draco Malfoy in custody, and you're the last hope we've got at defecting him and using what he knows to end this war."