Days turned to weeks and Hermione lay in the dungeons, her only visitors were the many depraved deatheaters that frequented the Manor. She despised their company, she was nauseated by the sensation of their hands on her skin. She hadn't found an opportunity to escape, there were no keys on any of the wizards who came within her arms reach. Only the Malfoys had the keys to her shackles and her door, they were her true keepers.
She couldn't keep track of the days or hours, but eventually Narcissa Malfoy graced her with her presence, staring down at the restrained witch. She said nothing, only peered down her nose. Hermione's muscles were atrophying from disuse, but she sat up regardless. "What?" Hermione croaked, scowling up at the graceful witch. Her already blonde hair was spotted with white streaks. Hermione thought the woman looked like an angel, the candlelight highlighted the silvery tint of her blond locks.
"Here." The wealthy witch said in an emotionless timbre. She spelled a tin cup of water onto the floor beside Hermione, who had hoped for food since she'd gone days without but she daren't ask. She drank her water warily, keeping an eye on the beautiful witch. "You want retribution?" Narcissa had begun to turn away to leave before stopping to ask the question.
"Yes?"
"On who?"
"Yes." Hermione grunted. Narcissa stopped to inspect the small girl, she couldn't help but pity her, even if she was a supposedly inferior being.
"Leave my son and I out of it." Narcissa sighed, twirling to quickly unlock the cell door. She left, trusting Hermione to free herself of her chains. She knew it was only a matter of time before the young witch made her escape anyway and Narcissa had to ensure Draco's safety, and hers as well.
"Deal." Hermione whispered into the dank stone room. A frenetic grin took over her face. She had been practicing her wandless magic for months while she was on the run, little had she known she'd need it. She hovered her hands over the bit of chain closest to her cuff, she couldn't risk heating the cuff and burning her skin. It broke with some skillfully applied ice and pressure. It was time for Hermione Granger to make her move. Looking down at her body, she cataloged her bruises, abrasions, and dirty clothes. She needed to get somewhere and get clean. She crept down the hall in the direction Narcissa disappeared. She slunk up the steps, she could feel the air getting warmer as she climbed up to the first floor of the Manor.
It was night and the halls were dark, Hermione had no trouble stumbling through the halls toward where she vaguely recalled the door being. Pausing in the grand hall full of quietly sleeping portraits, Hermione made her way to a pedestal against a wall, snatching an intricate-looking vase. She knew as she reached for it that there was a good chance it might curse her, but she needed to have something to sell for some sort of money when she was back out in the world. She would be totally okay with dying from some ancient vase's curse rather than at the hands of Tom Riddle or Bellatrix Lestrange, but if she lived to escape Malfoy Manor, she would have her revenge. The vase felt cool, the porcelain sent a wave of calm over her, she held it to her chest. There was the occasional creak and crack in the house, probably house elves putting things in order so no one would have to see them clean during the day.
The air outside was frosty, but not too much worse than the dungeons. Hobbling out into the gardens, Hermione's toes dug into the hard earth, she couldn't walk any faster. She'd get a wand and clothes elsewhere, she couldn't wander around the wizarding world unarmed and in her knickers.
The gates wouldn't open manually but she could not stop where she had come so far. Her vengeance hadn't even begun, she had so much to do.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
She found herself in Knockturn Alley, hiding carefully in the shadows for someone to come along. She'd been waiting at least 20 minutes when a witch in a heavy and warm cloak hurried past her, Hermione pounced, making sure to knock her head on the pavement. Hard. She was out cold, and possibly seriously injured. Her cloak and wand were stolen, but Hermione left her in the rest of her clothes so she likely (hopefully, Hermione from before would have been displeased with even the possibility) wouldn't be assaulted. Her feet were surprisingly small for her height, thus Hermione knew from a glance that the doll-like victorian style boots would never fit her own feet, this woman must have been a size 4 or perhaps a 4.5. Dropping the lanky black haired witch against the alley wall between two large rubbish bins, well hidden enough to be overlooked. She was safe and sound, at least as much as she could be. So Hermione took the wand and scurried off to Borgin & Burkes, knowing it was a 24 hour establishment.
The streets were quiet and everyone who was out and about appeared to be moving mindfully, with a destination and with intent.
Mr. Borgin was found perusing his own shop, carefully navigating the arrangements of antiques, careful not to touch certain pieces. He looked up upon hearing the light tinkling of a bell that meant the door had been opened. "'Ello miss." He hissed as he made his way behind the counter. He opened his mouth to speak once more before being cut off.
"Borgin," Hermione's features were entirely cloaked, from the bottoms of her feet to the top of her head. The only thing to be seen of her was her mouth, the rest of her face was hidden in the shadows of her cloak hood. She let the vase down on the counter. "How much?" The older man could not see her eyes, but he could feel them scalding him in their intensity. He fumbled with his inspection, unnerved by the mysterious witch in a way he had never been before.
"1,000 galleons." He looked up from the vase to the witch. "With this specific mix of curses and clear indicators of age and authenticity, 1,000 galleons should do."
"I don't like being lied to, Borgin." She knew the value was so much higher than that, but she didn't have time to argue with the sorry man. "I'll just take 2,000. Come now, I haven't got all night." She spoke with an air of finality and Borgin didn't dare test her. He scribbled on a banknote, signing it and tapping it with his wand as a final security measure.
"Here, miss." He slid it across the countertop, hoping she would hurry and leave, he had never been made to feel so fraught, especially by a woman. Hermione snatched it up and gracefully and agilely swept from the shop, all but flying down the streets to Gringotts, she would have the goblins transfer Borgin's money to her vault and make plans to begin her plotting, she had much to do.
Arranging her financial affairs was blissfully easy, as the goblins of Gringotts couldn't give a rat's arse about the legal status of a person, as Hermione was technically a fugitive, all they wanted was money and the control of the bank, they didn't care about the witches and wizards who came and went. Though the Ministry often had aurors in the area constantly patrolling for outlaws, now with the law under the thumb of the Dark Lord. It was so late and so slow that with her hood covered face and bare, cold feet Hermione was in and out inconspicuously within 20 minutes, a featherlight charm cast on a discreetly placed undetectable extension charmed old purse of Hermione's mother that she had stowed away in her vault along with some of her parents' other belongings from before she sent them away. In her purse, Hermione had a bit less than 1,000 galleons tucked away into an old school trunk with yet another extension charm and some muggle currencies as well, just in case, she had told herself.
With Ollivander missing from the public eye, his shop was easy for a witch of Hermione's skill to break into, so she entered and began her search for a new wand. Almost every wand sparked for her, but Hermione figured if that was her current baseline for wands, there had to be at least one that would do more than spark. Eventually one wand twitched and fire plumed from the tip, Hermione had found her new wand. 12 ½ inches, wych elm with a thestral tail hair. "Thestral indeed." Hermione giggled in an unbalanced manner, she was, in fact, able to face death, it was no doubt the wand for Hermione now. Perhaps she could become death.
By the time Hermione had gathered her thoughts to the best of her abilities, the sun had risen and shops were open. She made her way to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, only shedding her cloak once in a changing room. Hermione bought a pair of dark brown boots, a few standard casual outfits and two formal robes just in case, as well as undergarments and a few nighties.
Though the shophand seemed off put by the cloaked, mysterious woman, she took her money and asked no questions.
The Leaky Cauldron was in an atrocious state, but beggars couldn't be choosers and Hermione was grateful for the allowance of her anonymity once she set a small stack of galleons down to pay for the week's stay.
"Please bring meals up to my room, I'll pay extra." She asked in a monotonous voice.
"Alright, Miss-?" The bartender waited for a name.
Hermione turned as if she hadn't heard the question and climbed the steps to get to her room, she desperately needed a hot shower and rest in an actual bed.
She had planning to do.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Hermione sat against the wooden headboard, gnawing her top lip with fervour. She knew she had the power, and she knew she had the drive, but how exactly does one get revenge on an entire world? She had been mulling over her plans for hours on end and still had nothing practical to start on. When she laid back in bed her sweat would run cold and her stomach would revolt. There would be no rest, her body seemed to insist on staying upright with her eyes open.
If Hermione's eyes shut for a little too long she could smell hot breath on her face, and almost hear a slow grin forming on faces that were not there anymore. Hermione supposed that was as good a place to start as any, she wanted to destroy the men who worked under Voldemort. After them, Hermione wanted something from Harry and Ron. After her friends, Hermione was not sure what or who she would want as the next prize.
One thought she could not seem to shake was chilling, and yet if she wanted to succeed she would be forced to make decisions that she never would have condoned before. She would have to take risks that she would never have advised. She would need allies, or at least one ally.
Someone of great power, someone with no scruples, someone mad enough to help a woman he had been trying to kill casually for years. Someone desperate enough to help her, knowing she could be a threat to him in the end, but willing to gamble.
Of course she had a man in mind, and of course she knew it was a terrible idea categorically. Of course she was going to try to arrange a meeting with Voldemort on her own terms.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
There were scraps of parchment stuck all over the same wall as the door to the hall. Some covered in small sketches of horcruxes, some in numbers, some in dates, and some in tiny little scripts Hermione crammed onto too-small pieces of paper.
The more Hermione considered her options, the more she felt she had available to her. If Hermione wanted a truce with Voldemort, she was going to need a pliable version of him. Drugging the Dark Lord seemed more difficult than need be, especially since he was effectively 1/128th of a man- who knows what potions and drugs would do to someone who had to be tethered to a merely semi human form. Another viable option for controlling Voldemort was leverage, which Hermione had plenty of, in the form of information.
That's what brought Hermione to her most exciting plan yet, she would have to beat Harry and Ron to the next horcrux. It wouldn't be hard, she presumed, those boys were a walking disaster without her to temper them. They were like a blunt axe, sure they'd get it done eventually, but Hermione was a whetstone and she could find another blade to meet her ends.
After what culminated to be 27 virtually uninterrupted hours of sticking, unsticking, and resticking bits of string and paper to her rented room's wall, Hermione finally fell back into an upholstered chair. Sleep took her almost by force.
With her hair uncombed and wild about her ears and shoulders, she was warmly insulated from the slight chill in the room.
A single rap on the door signalled her next meal was waiting on the other side of the thick wood door. Hermione awoke gently to the sound, rolling out her neck as she leaned forward, bracing her hands on her thighs as she pushed herself up and to the door.
It was a simple breakfast, eggs, beans, and toast. Hermione supposed that if Tom, the barkeep, noticed how thin she was from her hands and the bottom third of her face, she must look something awful. All the meals she had been served since arriving at the Leaky were simple, and not so rich that they would upset her fragile digestive system after starving for so long. She still never cleared the plate, it was too much food.
The horcruxes that had already been dispatched included Tom Riddle's diary, the Gaunt ring, and the locket of Slytherin. Hermione's heart clenched as she remembered the killing of the horcrux in the locket. Harry, Ron, and she had felt so close after it was over. It had felt like they were safe again, if just for a moment, to hope. It felt like they were going to make it, and then after not too long the taboo was broken.
She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand as the buttered toast became ash in her mouth. Hermione ate the whole plate anyway, she would need the strength.
Something was tickling her brain though. From what she knew, Voldemort chose things to bastardise that meant something. All three of the horcruxes Hermione could account for were Voldemort's from his past, his journal, his mother's locket, and his grandfather's ring. But there was something more than the glaring Hogwarts theme of all of the theories Hermione had, something insidious.
She stared at a shadow under the bed from her perch on the chair in the corner by the restroom, listlessly trying to trigger the thought she was brewing. Brown eyes, scouring her skin. Hermione shivered for a moment. Bellatrix's anger wasn't random, it was fueled by fear. Hermione cast a warming charm wordlessly as she glared at the spot under the bed, willing it to edge her thoughts along. Bellatrix had practically shared what her fear revolved around as well, Hermione felt confident in that. She was struggling to recall what she had been forced to learn at Malfoy Manor, she clearly remembered a deal with Narcissa Malfoy, and she remembered her hurts. Not clearly, but well enough. Hermione remembered enough to know she needed to see a healer, but she could not afford the risk. She, too, was afraid.
Bellatrix was afraid that Hermione might have accessed her Gringotts vault. The Lestrange vault, that is. And if Hermione knew anything about anything, she would bet that inside that vault was some sort of Hogwarts or Tom Riddle themed artifact.
Planning a robbery and actually breaking into Gringotts were two different things entirely. Hermione could likely find or trick her way into the vault, but getting out of one was notoriously difficult according to Harry. Hermione had no family vault, no ancient pedigree, and no reason to have ever gone deep into the belly of Gringotts, but Harry knew about the bank and the little nuances someone who had ridden the mine carts would have acquired. Hermione bit her inner cheek as she tossed the plate toward the floor, kicking it up as it approached her foot so it bounced before shattering on the floor. It didn't make a mess like would have made Hermione feel better, or make a difference in her frustration, but it was all Hermione could allow herself to feel. She had to save her rage, it was the only reliable energy she had.
She couldn't apparate from within Gringotts, much like Hogwarts, but perhaps like Hogwarts, Gringotts could not prevent a portkey from going off on the grounds. Hermione sat up straighter, repairing the plate and without looking once, set it on the tiny table beside her. Hermione would need some instruction for this one. If only she already had the damn horcrux, at least she could ask for its opinion, whether it thought she was mad for this. Hermione would take a 20-year-old dark lord for company at this point, she was growing incredibly lonely. Sure, she could never trust him, but as luck would have it she shouldn't have trusted her friends anyway. With friends like these and all that…