Hermione had endured three days of captivity at Grimmauld Place, where every escape attempt had resulted in Kreacher dragging her back to the dark confines of her room. Her captors insisted on being addressed as "grandmother" and "grandfather." They had shown her the portrait of her own face on the sprawling Black family tree, extinguishing any lingering hopes of a misunderstanding. Hermione had learned she was the daughter of one Sirius Black, incarcerated in Azkaban for the murder of twelve Muggles— a term that still eluded her grasp.
During a rare moment of distraction, Hermione had once dared to ask about her birth mother, prompting Arcturus Black to weave a grim tale of her family's death with an emotionless face that sent shivers down her spine. A war had raged, and her parents had apparently chosen the "wrong side," as they put it.
One evening, her grandmother's cold words crashed over Hermione like an icy wave. "You shall not breathe a word about your upbringing to anyone, understood?"
Hermione struggled to maintain her focus on the spindly witch's words, well aware of the consequences of inattention. On the second day with her captors—or "family" they insisted on being called—Hermione's momentary lapse had resulted in a painful strike to her left cheek, a memory that made her recoil whenever those pale hands neared her face. The more she learned about the wizarding world and her own heritage, the more appalled she became.
"You are the great-granddaughter of Arcturus Black, the head of Britain's most ancient magical bloodline. Never forget that," her grandmother emphasized.
Hermione shuddered. It had taken her until after her grandfather's departure to realize that, while he may have been strict, he didn't evoke nearly the same fear in her as Walburga did.
"Yes, grandmother," she muttered, her eyes fixed firmly on her dinner. The sooner she could escape, the better.
The wizarding world held many peculiar traditions, and Hermione begrudgingly had to acquaint herself with them. Waiting for the house elves to present a damp cloth for hand cleaning and leaving a portion of her meal uneaten to avoid insulting the host were just a few examples. She surveyed the array of cutlery before her, wondering if every wizarding family held such elaborate feasts every night. It all seemed rather pointless.
"Very well, you may retire to your room," her grandmother drawled before fixing her with a stern glare. "And do not forget to read some of the books I gave you."
Relieved to escape the oppressive presence of the woman, Hermione practically leapt from her seat and hurried back to her room. Although the space was a tad gloomy for her liking and had apparently once belonged to a young boy, Hermione felt safe there. Walburga never ventured into that room, preferring to send Kreacher to fetch the girl.
As she closed the heavy door behind her, she felt some of the tension in her neck and shoulders begin to ebb away. Grimacing, she tugged at her tightly-bound braid until she sensed the charm that Walburga cast on it every morning to keep it in place fading away. After a few moments of tugging on the delicate bow, her wild curls cascaded back onto her shoulders, making Hermione feel a little more like herself.
She loathed this place, despised the people within it who had the audacity to snatch her away from her home. Hermione wasn't even permitted to mention her parents, simply because they were what Walburga referred to as "Muggles." It was apparently something terrible.
"I'll find a way to escape this place. I just need to be strong," she whispered, settling at the desk beneath one of the tall windows at the room's far end.
Hermione Granger was a brave girl. Her parents had taught her to stand up to bullies at school, and her current situation was no different. Her two captors were just two terrible bullies. "They can only hurt me if I let them…"