Hermione molded herself into the corner, her arms instinctively encircling her knees, as her forehead met cold concrete. A chaotic reel of images flickered through her mind – the echoes of screams, the shadow of impending doom, her inexperienced comrades charging ahead with wands at the ready, trying to halt the Death Eater onslaught. Their world met its end not with a bang, but with a silence punctuated by the dazzling bursts of a macabre green and red light display, reminiscent of an American Fourth of July celebration rather than a battlefield. The resistance had crumbled.

Consumed by a gut-wrenching terror, she unwittingly became the bearer of death for a single Death Eater. Instead of wielding the insurgent's rudimentary wand, which she could barely control, she found herself thrusting a muggle weapon - a gleaming steel knife - through the layers of coarse, obsidian-hued robes that concealed his vital organs. Blood welled from his wound, a dark torrent that seeped in scorching rivulets onto her fingers, an indelible stain of life forcibly extinguished. The chorus of her own heartbeat blended with the echoes of his last breath, a dissonant symphony of endings. Each drop of blood that painted her skin seemed to paint her conscience in darker hues, and in the bleak realization of what she had done, her own vulnerability was laid bare.

But even in the wake of her transgression, the machinations of fate remained indifferent. Other hands closed around her, wrenching her from the precipice of her turmoil, sparing her from the chilling caress of the avada kedavra's emerald death-light. A malicious smile contorted the face that loomed above her, bearing witness to her agony. "Impressive," the words dripped like venom, "apparently not all mudbloods are mice."

Then nothing but the frigid touch of this unforgiving concrete cell. The cold, unyielding surface seemed to seep into her very bones, a constant reminder of her isolation and the stark reality of her circumstances. The hours stretched on, measured not by the sun's movement but by the rhythms of her own thoughts. The passage of time remained ambiguous – whether a few days or weeks – until at last, a disruption shattered the monotony of her mind's solitary musings.

"What are you doing here!" The guard's exclamation reverberated through the narrow corridor, an abrupt intrusion that shattered the usually stagnant air. Hermione's head snapped up, her pulse quickening in response to the unexpected disturbance. Her thoughts surged, attempting to assemble the disjointed pieces of this unforeseen puzzle. Had the meticulously orchestrated machinery of their captivity faltered? Was there an unforeseen breach in the fortress-like security? Had the rebellion arisen anew like a Phoenix in the ashes? The guard, known for his cold demeanor and penchant for cruelty, now wore a mask of disarray and panic, a stark departure from his usual facade of authority. The tremor in his voice sent ripples of unease coursing through Hermione.

"Our Lord did not authorize this confinement," a voice, distinct yet strangely soft amidst the stark surroundings, sliced through the tense atmosphere. "Are you keeping these mudbloods for yourself, Fletcher? It seems your personal financial interests might be outweighing your commitment to our Lord's objectives. Show them to me"

Muttering in annoyance, he ignited the end of his wand, casting a gentle glow upon the once dimly lit corridor. The visitor's boots clicked on the rough concrete as she glanced into each cell paying little heed to the prisoners within. Hermione remained utterly still, as if time itself had frozen around her. Her chest refused to rise and fall with breath, and her limbs refused to respond to the urgent commands her racing heart sent to them. The food they had been given was barely enough to keep the skin from falling off her protruding ribs, and certainly not to entertain the possibility of movement.

She expected the woman to pass by her cell like she had the rest, but instead, the darkly dressed Death Eater stopped. Those eyes, piercing and frigid, with an unsettlingly darkness, scanned her face, pausing momentarily to stare into the younger woman's eyes before snapping back."Her."

A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped Hermione's parted lips, reverberating through the dimly lit chamber. The woman, her countenance a mask of calculated intrigue, met this unwitting acknowledgment with a sly smile. She declared with a voice both commanding and sinister, "I lay claim to this one for the House of Black."

Fletcher, his features contorted in incredulity, sputtered to voice his objections. His eyes widened, resembling orbs on the verge of departure from their sockets as he confronted the enigmatic witch before him. "Claim? By what right? I pulled her from the battlefield!"

The woman's response, delivered with a cold, unwavering resolve, carried the weight of old grievances. "She killed my husband."

Fletcher, despite his protestations, knew well the complex history between the woman and her estranged spouse, Rodolphus. He dared to voice the unspoken, reminding her, "You hated him."

"And he me." The woman's steely gaze turned to Hermione, unwavering in her claim. "Nevertheless, she belongs to me."

The guard's voice, previously unstable, began to steady as he sought to regain his footing. "They are my prisoners of war! It falls within my discretion to manage them. Now if you would like to pay-"

"Care to assess my capacity for discretion?" With a graceful finesse, her wand executed a mesmerizing pirouette within the embrace of her fingers, like a dancer in a spellbinding performance. The slender wood seemed an extension of her will, its movements an intricate language only she could fluently speak. Each rotation painted a picture of her confidence and control, leaving an indelible mark on the air that surrounded her.

Beneath the collar of his shirt, his Adam's apple performed an almost rhythmic dance, a visible testament to the palpable tension that thrummed within him. A complex symphony of apprehension and terror painted lines on his face as a smirk caressed the soft unblemished skin of the woman before him. "Take the mudblood then. A gift for the great House Black."

As she spoke, ruby red lips moved from smirking to sneering. "Shame, I would have loved to have to persuade you. My wand has not tasted its favorite spell since we won the continent."

With a mere flourish of the man's wand, the prison bars yielded to his command, swinging open with a metallic creak. The woman, an imposing figure, strode into Hermione's cell. Her attire was a stark departure from the sleek fighting robes that had once cloaked her; now, she was ensconced in a tight cinched corset and a long, flowing skirt that undulated like liquid midnight in the flickering torchlight.

Though Hermione's limbs quivered with trepidation, she summoned the vestiges of her inner strength, attempting to launch an attack against her captor. However, the older woman displayed an almost preternatural grace, evading Hermione's assault with a serpentine elegance. In her fervent attempt to land a blow, Hermione unwittingly overextended herself, causing a sharp, searing pain to flare from her wounded side. A gasp, fraught with agony, escaped her lips as she crumbled towards the unforgiving ground. But, in a breathtaking display of agility, the woman swooped in just in time to catch Hermione, cradling her as if she were a fragile porcelain doll.

A sardonic scowl tugged at the woman's lips as she held the trembling girl delicately in her arms. "You didn't even have healers tend to these prisoners?"

"I have to turn a profit somehow."

Resigned to the inexorable course of her fate, Hermione found herself cradled and borne away through the dimly illuminated corridor. Strong arms, possessed of an almost otherworldly fortitude, held her captive, obliterating any notion of escape from her wearied mind. Thus, she relinquished the futile specter of resistance, allowing her head to rest, heavy as an anvil, upon the surprisingly soft shoulder of her newfound custodian. Fatigue settled in her bones, the vestiges of her earlier rebellion having exacted a toll too great to bear. Sleep beckoned, a siren's song, and Hermione succumbed, her consciousness slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

Using the spiked heel of her boot, Bellatrix kicked open the imposing doors of the Black Manor, the creaking hinges echoing through the grand entrance. She stood there for a brief moment, the cold draft of the manor's cavernous hall seeping into her bones, while her sharp ears strained for any faint hint of her sister's presence. Andromeda had become an elusive enigma, a recluse who had withdrawn even from the most basic necessities like meals. The dark witch, her impatience evident in the furrowed lines on her forehead, shook her head in vexation. Without the house elves, she doubted her sister could even be coaxed into washing.

In her arms, she cradled the almost lifeless girl, her pallid face contorted in pain and despair. With an impatient snort, Bellatrix adjusted her burden on her shoulder, seeking a more comfortable grip, and scanned the gloomy surroundings for an appropriate place to deposit the girl.

Bounding towards them with youthful energy and unbridled curiosity, Nymphadora, Bellatrix's delightful niece, approached the pair, her wide eyes fixated on the enigmatic occupant clutched in her aunt's grasp. "Who is that?"

Bellatrix, momentarily distracted from her task, assessed a relatively undamaged couch in the aging parlor nearby. It appeared to be a relic from a different era, one that her mother's portrait would likely screech about being soiled but was at least not in the portrait's direct line of sight. With determination, Bellatrix strode across the room and gently lowered the unconscious girl onto the aged but still somewhat regal piece of furniture. The worn upholstery yielded to the weight of the girl's limp form, which lay there like a fragile doll.

"This," Bellatrix declared with chilling finality, "is the young woman responsible for the untimely demise of your uncle Rod."

Nymphadora's eyes, a captivating mixture of curiosity and shock, widened further. Her hand, frozen in mid-air, betraying a fleeting urge to touch their prisoner. She did not see others outside of the house. Andromeda was near fanatical about the dangers the outside world could pose to her daughter. "But why is she here?"

Bellatrix's lips curled into a sinister smile, her voice laden with the cruelty that had come to define her character. "When you extinguish the life of a member from an ancient and noble pureblood lineage," she explained, "you accrue a debt of life to that house. She is now irrevocably bound to us—her service, her life, and even her very body are now the exclusive domain of the noble House of Black."

"Mama says that's cruel," Nymphadora remarked with youthful innocence, her voice carrying a tinge of disapproval learned from lessons imparted from her muggleborn father before his death.

Bellatrix's lips curled into a knowing smile, her response unwavering in its acknowledgment of their family's tradition. "Traditions are what keep purebloods on top. They are what make us better."

Nymphadora, in her youthful curiosity, meandered closer to the unconscious girl's head. She delicately swept aside the disheveled strands of unkempt hair, revealing a hint of the girl's underlying beauty. "She's pretty," Nymphadora observed with a touch of admiration.

Bellatrix's calculating gaze descended upon the girl, scrutinizing her with an eerie mix of detachment and assessment. The girl's complexion, a pallor of half-life, hinted at the depths of her suffering. Her face bore the cruel testimony of her hard life, an intricate tapestry of bruises and abrasions marred the delicate jaw line.

"Perhaps" Bellatrix murmured, her fingers lightly touching the girl's chin as she turned her head from side to side. Her words held a hint of intrigue, as if she were weighing the potential uses of such an asset. "There are aspects of her that will certainly prove advantageous to us. But first, we must keep her from dying on us."

Bellatrix didn't waste a moment. Her hand shot to her thigh, retrieving a hidden knife with a practiced fluidity. It gleamed malevolently in the dim room's light as she sliced through the girl's soiled shirt with precision. Fabric gave way to metal, falling away in tattered remnants. The knife's cold steel then turned its attention to the girl's flimsy trousers. Bellatrix's hand moved like a conductor's baton, directing the blade with a calculated and relentless force. The knife had not touched the girl's pale skin, a stark demonstration of Bellatrix's skill with the cursed blade. As the final shreds of the girl's attire fell away, they unveiled a grotesque, pus-filled wound on her delicate side. Nymphadora, unable to stifle her reaction, gasped in shock.

"What do you suggest, my dear?" Bellatrix asked, her voice honey rich with caring when looking at her young niece. She wondered how much of Andromeda's teachings had taken root in Nymphadora's young mind before the weight of the older woman's grief had left her little time for anything beyond her sorrow. The middle Black sister had always excelled at healing. Unfortunately, the mudblood she had run off with was less impressive. He had barely completed his education at Hogwarts, back when his kind was still tolerated within the school's walls. Bellatrix had no remorse for ending the life of that foolish mudblood; she considered it a liberation that had rescued her sister and niece from his misguided influence.

Nymphadora, her hand still covering her mouth, stammered out, "We should clean the wound and maybe consider a flesh regeneration potion?"

Bellatrix patted her niece's colorful curls, pleased that she had some ideas of healing magic. "Won't work until we remove the inflection. But that would come in handy after. Why don't you go see what we have in the potion cabinet"

As her niece ran off, the dark witch's eyes remained calculating as she surveyed the girl's battered form. "She'd better mend quickly," she mused aloud, her impatience thinly veiled. "It would be a shame if she were to die after all the trouble we've gone through to acquire her."

"You really ought to venture beyond these walls," Bellatrix quipped, a hint of mockery in her voice.

Andromeda, her attention torn from the pages of her book, raised her head slowly, a subtle exasperation in her gaze. "Venture out? Into your uncivilized world? I think not."

Her sister's incessant meddling had become tiresome. While it may have stemmed from a place of concern, it was precisely that caring that had caused this rift in the first place. Sometimes Andromeda wondered if it wouldn't have been better for a different Death Eater to catch them. End all this madness for them, instead of just killing her husband.

"I recently enlightened your daughter about the concept of wound healing," Bellatrix remarked casually, a sly glint in her eyes. "You should show more interest in her upbringing, or I might lead her astray."

Andromeda shook her head, her voice tinged with a measure of respect for her older sister that would not have been there a year ago. "You will either way, but I know you love Nymphadora. You will not hurt her."

Bellatrix's derisive snort filled the room. "I've never been known for my nurturing nature. But, perhaps our new pet will be."

"Pet?"

Bellatrix couldn't help but grin mischievously; it was evident she had dropped the previous comment to capture her sister's attention. "Ah, yes. We've acquired a mudblood. She's somewhat fragile, still recuperating. But she possesses a certain allure and fiery spirit. Perhaps she can provide you with some consolation during your times of sorrow."

"A muggle-born?" Andromeda asked, a hint of disbelief in her voice.

"Rodolphus is dead thanks to her. I suppose I owe her a debt," Bellatrix mused, her tone casual.

Andromeda's frustration flared, a simmering heat within her. "So you've chosen to make her a captive?"

Bellatrix, undeterred, advanced toward her sister's desk. "It's better to be a captive in our household than to roam freely out there. But perhaps you've been too ensnared by your grief to see the bigger picture. You were a leader at Hogwarts. We need leaders now."

"The Hogwarts I knew is nothing more than distant memories," Andromeda lamented, a deep ache settling in her chest. "What significance does the Dark Lord's world hold for me now?"

Bellatrix's gaze turned icy, with a flash of fury flickering in their depths. "You always chose solitude, thinking only of yourself. Even in our childhood, you left Narcissa and me alone to suffer the wrath of your mistakes. So selfish."

"You have no right to say that! I loved him!" The very snarl that had adorned Bellatrix's face earlier that day, while retrieving their captive, now marred Andromeda's visage. The trademark Black family features painted a haunting beauty on her face as anger flowed through her.

Bellatrix's voice dripped with venom as she whispered, "Once, you loved us too. Were we ever truly anything to you, Dromeda?"

Andromeda's breath hitched, her eyes momentarily clouding with memories. The grand halls of the Black family manor echoed with laughter, the three sisters playing, their bond seemingly unbreakable.

"I did," she replied, voice quivering, trying to contain the swell of emotions. "But things changed. Choices were made. I couldn't stand by and watch the path you were heading down."

Bellatrix tilted her head, a mocking smile curling her lips. "Ah, yes. Choices. Like the choice you made to betray our blood, to love a Mudblood."

A heavy silence hung between the sisters. The weight of years of separation and choices made, loomed like an omnipresent shadow.

With a slow effort, Hermione opened her heavy, dew-laden eyes, immediately encountering a pair of deep cerulean ones, emanating purity and naivety. They sat atop rosy cheeks, framed by a disheveled halo of vibrant fuchsia locks.

"Hello," the voice of the girl, gentle yet filled with underlying excitement, brushed Hermione's ears. "Are you thirsty? Or perhaps hurting? I'm Tonks, though Aunties refuse to call me that. They claim that isn't a pureblood name, and I shouldn't use it, but that was my daddy's name"

Pureblood. Hermione pressed her lips tightly together and averted her gaze.

A sandpaper-like sensation scratched at Hermione's throat, her body pulsing with waves of pain. With a measured effort, she adjusted herself to better face the young girl. Hermione offered a silent nod. The child's head bobbed vigorously as she swiftly scampered away, returning with both water and a potion.

"Auntie Bella said you could have this potion if you woke up, but it tastes terrible." The child's features morphed momentarily, shocking their captive. She had gone from a normal youthful face to one more likely found in a horror film. Her hair had changed colors to match, becoming a vomit green. The changes were gone as fast as they had come. Hermione was not sure if it was something to do with the child's magic or if every pureblood could perform such feats. "And here is water! You could have wine I suppose. You are old enough. Not as old as mama and auntie. Old enough to have gone to Hogwarts though."

Hermione winced, a pounding rhythm in her head amplified by the child's energetic chatter. Without hesitation, she grabbed the potion, swallowing the disgustingly lumpy liquid, and then quenched her thirst with the proffered water. The current setting was a marked improvement from her previous confinement, but god, she hurt so much.

"Go to sleep again," Tonks murmured, gently pulling a previously unnoticed blanket up to Hermione's shoulders. "That hole in your side is still really ugly."

Tonks began to stroke Hermione's hair, a gesture which at first felt unsettling — the idea of a pureblood child treating her like a cherished plaything. But soon, the rhythmic caress lulled Hermione, her yawns growing deeper until she succumbed to slumber once more.

Hermione's senses abruptly came alive, a sharp surge of awareness racing through her. As she attempted to sit up, a stinging pain radiated from her abdomen, but it was notably more bearable than before; she could shift without the threat of blacking out looming over her.

A voice pulled her back to the moment.

"You're awake."

Turning her head, Hermione's eyes settled on a figure, poised with the elegance and discipline of a seasoned warrior. The woman wore the same form-fitting corset, contrasting the ripped fabric of the long skirt below. Every movement she made was deliberate, like a dance or martial art routine, unfamiliar to Hermione. Strands of her hair were neatly pulled back, allowing beads of sweat to journey down her skin, catching the muted glow emanating from a lone candle resting atop a barren bookshelf as the dark witch attacked the practice dummy with her wand.

Despite the dimness, the grandeur of the room was undeniable. The lavish decor, gleaming gold accents, and intricate designs all screamed of pureblood luxury. Hermione's eyes darted with disdain from the ostentatious surroundings back to the woman, now sending slashes of red light into the dummy's stuffing. The destruction was a sharp contrast to the opulent room. "Who are you?" Hermione demanded, voice edged with suspicion. "What's your game?"

Gracefully reverting to a neutral stance, the woman grabbed a nearby towel, dabbing the sweat from her brow. She met Hermione's intense gaze, a hint of recognition and challenge dancing in her eyes. "I am General Bellatrix Black, formerly known as Lestrange. A surname I've lost, courtesy of you."

"General? You were the mastermind behind the onslaught?"

"Onslaught?" She tilted her head slightly, a thin eyebrow arching with feigned innocence. "Such a severe word. We merely reclaimed what was rightfully ours, breathing life back into a magic-starved world." Her lips curled into a sardonic smile.

"And what do you want from me?"

"You murdered my husband, so I have decided to take care of you. We are offering you a kindness "

A cold dread settled in Hermione's core. "Take care of me?" She repeated, the implications heavy with threat. The term reminded her of mob lingo for 'eliminate', yet here she was, treated with some semblance of care. What could these elite purebloods possibly want?

"You're a braze one, a mouse with the audacity to take on her betters. For one to strike down a member of my esteemed family demands a unique kind of retribution. We will give you the Black's mark. In turn, we will take care of you, and you will do what we wish you to."

"You can't!" Hermione cried, terror seizing her heart. She should have fought harder in her cell. Surely, she would have been better dead in her cell than here with her captures.

Bellatrix's lips curled into a predatory smile, her eyes twinkling with malevolent amusement. "Oh, believe me, dear, we have quite an array of intentions for you."

"Fuck you" Hermione hissed, her voice laced with venom.

A low chuckle escaped her captor. "Including that particular proposition." Moving with the stealth and elegance of a shadowy panther, Bellatrix glided over to the couch where Hermione lay. She reached out, allowing a single, cold finger to trace an intimate path down Hermione's face, causing the younger woman to shiver involuntarily. "But let's ensure you're in prime condition first, shall we? It would be a shame if you were... incapacitated."

A vice-like grip seemed to constrict Hermione's chest, her heart pounding in defiant rage. Every fiber of her being screamed in defiance. "Black," she snarled, her voice barely above a whisper, yet dripping with threat, "You may revel in this twisted game of yours now, but you've made a critical error. I will end you, as surely as I ended your despicable husband. Every last one associated with you, including that kid, will face-"

Hermione's defiant retort died in her throat as Bellatrix's fingers wrapped around it, cold and unyielding. The older woman's grip tightened, pressing insistently against the delicate tendons and obstructing the flow of air. Hermione's eyes widened, the sharp sting of panic setting in. "Repeat your threat. Speak of harming my niece once more."

Gasping, the pressure on her windpipe preventing speech, Hermione couldn't form the words even if she wanted to.

A sinister, satisfied smile played on Bellatrix's lips. "That's what I thought," she murmured, her voice dripping with venom. "Should you ever dream of touching her — and I assure you, she's perfectly capable of defending herself wand or not - you'll wish death had taken you first."

As the world blurred at the edges and spots danced before her eyes, Hermione tried to communicate her acquiescence, her desperation, through her gaze alone. Sensing this, Bellatrix eased her grip ever so slightly.

"You might not believe it now," Bellatrix whispered, her words chillingly gentle, "but in our own way, we're offering you mercy. All we ask in return is your... obedience."

"I- I killed your husband."

The grip on Hermione's face slackened, and Bellatrix stepped back, the ghost of a grin appearing on her lips. Her teeth seemed unnaturally pointed in the dim light, reminiscent of a predatory beast. "Indeed, you did. And for that, I owe you my gratitude."

The witch walked from the room, her hips swinging as she did. Hermione felt the tremors inside her, a mix of fear and confusion. Everywhere, the heavy presence of purebloods, each with the power to shatter her very being with a mere wave of their wand. They had every motive to harm her, yet they hadn't. Instead, they seemed intent on nursing her back to health. But for what purpose? What did they mean by 'obedience'?

General Black had termed it a 'kindness'. But what twisted form of benevolence was this? Hermione doubted these purebloods even understood the true essence of the word.