When Hermione apparated at 36 Billston Street, there were three cloaked figures standing in the middle of the street, side by side. They were masked. Death Eaters, not Scavengers. She could distinguish them because Death Eaters wore cloaks, and Scavengers coats. But they were all black.

The street was deserted, as expected, and foggy.

When they spotted her from afar, they raised their wand in her direction. "Wand in your mouth, hands in the air!" one of them shouted.

Her fist tightened around her wand. She wassurrendering, couldn't they—

"WAND IN YOUR MOUTH, HANDS IN THE AIR!" The Death Eater's voice was deep and throaty.

Hermione obeyed at once, lowering her bandana and placing her wand between her teeth. The rancid smell of the fog penetrated through her open mouth. That could activate her gag reflex in an instant.

She lifted her arms to show them her palms. She didn't move. She had no tricks. No plan.

No dignity—

The Death Eater rocketed up from their place, flying up in the air in a twist of black smoke. She focused on her thundering heart, not cooperating with the impression of control she wanted to give them.

Two landed at her sides, one in front of her. The man in front of her removed his mask. She didn't recognize him. He still had a piece of fabric around his nose and mouth.

The smell. She wanted to throw up—

The Death Eaters at her sides grabbed each of her arms. The man in front of her snatched her wand from her mouth with a nauseated face. "Disgusting mudblood," he muttered. He wrapped her wand in a brown piece of cloth before placing it in his pocket.

"The smell—" Hermione choked, heart in her throat. Was this what she was reduced to? Asking something from the Death Eaters…

The man in front of her smirked, a crooked grin. "You shall address me as Mr. Darstan, mudblood." He nodded at his two companions and they released her. Hermione quickly replaced the bandana on her nose. Merlin, she was light-headed.

The Death Eaters claimed back her arms.

"I don't see the need for this," she said. "You have my wand. I'll follow you anywhere."

Darstan smiled wickedly, revealing a set of crooked greyish teeth. "I'm not entirely sure of that. You ready to play?"

"I want to see them." she replied, deadpan. "How can I be sure that you haven't already touched them, or tortured them, or killed them—"

The slap came with lightning speed, shutting her up. Hermione's ears buzzed, and her skin burned as if her blood were boiling. Hot tears automatically sprang to her eyes in reflex, but a few deep breaths and they retreated. She tasted blood on her lips.

"That hurt," her voice was dangerously low, "—Mr. Darstan."

The Death Eater on her left spoke. "Master said not to harm her."

Darstan scoffed.

"The games will take care of that," the Death Eater added.

When the two Death Eaters released her, Darstan laid his hand on the back of her neck—an icy, hard, painful grip—and disapparated.

The Apparition was brutal and rekindled Hermione's nausea. They landed somewhere she didn't recognize, near a very wide river with a bridge crossing over it. She vomited on the ground. Her stomach wasn't holding much, but it was acid.

They walked over the bridge, the water streaming under them. They pushed her in front of them, and apparated once they were on the other side.

She vomited. They didn't even let her wipe her mouth before apparating again.

At last, they landed in front of the Empire's gates. She was so light-headed that she had to blink to chase the black spots from her vision. She should have expected a trip with multiple jumps. One could only apparate within the same country.

The iron gates were so high that she had to crane her neck to see the top.

Darstan removed the cloth from his face to breathe. The air was not so foul here—the wards made sure of that. Hermione couldn't speak just yet, trying to take it all in. The place was familiar, she knew the grounds—they were once her home. She could sense and hear that it was buzzing with life right behind the walls.

Darstan sent a luminous signal on the other side of the gate and waited. Fifteen seconds later, it creaked open to let them in.

"Welcome to the Empire, mudblood," he nudged her in.

The air here was narrow and foul. The walls of the dungeons were clawed and stained, covered in black ashes that still reeked of fire. Had they burned, sometime in the last few years?

Hermione couldn't quite recognise the dungeons she had spent her Potions lessons in. Walls had been demolished to widen certain rooms. But she could identify that she was in the same place as the former Slytherin common room. There were magical greenish lights that sizzled, spreading a dim, ghostly light over the whole of the dungeons. And there was barely enough light through the window, since they were under the Lake.

A floor of poorly cut stone. Dozens of cells on either side where the dormitories once stood. Locked doors with a semi-circle opening with bars at the top. Exactly like a prison. Hardened grime dripped down the walls. Rusty, wet pipes snaked everywhere. Dried black blood splattered across the floors. Was this where they kept the players, or the prisoners? It reeked.

How could she spend seven months here?

They didn't let her see her parents. They placed her in one of the cells. She began to think that perhaps she had surrendered for nothing. That she had stupidly believed them, accepting the mere word of a Death Eater. The picture could have been faked. Of course they had schemed to force her to surrender. They had taken her wand.

It was obvious to her now.

Her parents—they were still in Australia. She was sure of that.

How could she be so stupid? How could she—

She curled up on the hard-stoned floor and didn't make a sound for a whole day.

Hermione was at Malfoy Manor, under a twilight moon. A clunking noise repeatedly echoed from afar. . Her back was against the cold checkerboard tiles of the drawing room. Curly black hair was hovering above her, sticking to her mouth, tingling her. Her throat was awfully painful… She realisedshewas the one screaming, it was her voice that sounded so primal and feral, like a wounded animal.Clunk.An intense burn macerated her arm, and a pain so sharp it tore right through her. The clanking noise got louder, more insistent. CLUNK. She looked up and it wasn't Bellatrix who was straddling her anymore. It was Draco Malfoy. CLUNK,CLUNK. His eyes were white as snow, without pupils, and his lips were black. He was smiling, and when he leaned above her face, his breath smelled of decay and fog.

"You could survive this," he murmured, fog pouring out of his mouth and seeping into hers. She gagged.

CLUNK

CLUNK

CLUNK

CLUNK

Hermione woke with a jolt, sweaty and hazy. Her heart was drumming in her chest, pleading to jump out. Her left wrist was burning.

A silver snake-masked face was looking at her through the bars, the motion of their wand interrupted—wood against metal. He had clanked her awake.

She looked at her burning wrist. There, the symbol was inked on the soft flesh of her wrist. The triangle, the line, the circle.

"Rise and shine," the man said through his mask, deadpan. His voice was rotund, croaky.

She scrambled to a sitting position and shifted back from the bars. "Who are you." She had never seen a man wearing a grey uniform like that; grey wide-legged trousers with a black stripe in the middle of each leg, and a grey jacket, sleeves rolled-up, with a hood. He was monochromatic. The silver snake mask didn't resemble the ones the Death Eaters were wearing.

"Why do they always ask the same thing?" the man replied. "Who are you? What do you want? Are you gonna hurt me?"

She just stared at him, fists clenched with the need of her wand, her salvation. Blood had crusted on the corner of her mouth from the tear in her bottom lip—a vestige of Darstan's slap.

"I'm taking you out," he added coldly.

"Who are you."

He opened her cell with a wave of his wand. "I, miss Granger, am your High Gamemaster." He entered the space and crossed the cell in one swift stride. She couldn't refrain from taking a step back, her back pressed against the wall.

The Gamemaster stood before her, towering over her, hands behind his back with a wide stance. Hermione wondered briefly if this was an intended power pose.

"Now, if you could just follow me," he said,

She didn't move, glaring at the snake mask. "No." Thank Merlin her voice wasn't shaking.

The man stayed quiet and even though she couldn't see his eyes, she knew he was looking right at her. "I apologise if I wasn't clear," he leaned towards her. "I wasn't asking."

"I'm not following you anywhere unless it's to go see my parents." She felt so stupid, so fucking stupid to have believed for a second that this picture was real—

The gamemaster burst out laughing, and the echo bounced off the walls of the dungeons. He raised a gloved hand to her face and brushed her cheek with his finger.

"It's a shame they're making you play. This," his finger slid to the curve of her lips, "could fetch a pretty good price for what it's worth." He carefully scraped the crusted blood from the corner of her mouth, flakes of it falling on her chest. "You might make it to Christmas, and then, you'll make some peopleveryhappy."

Hermione had been described as fearless, but not reckless. This was not a Be Brave moment. She couldn't push him away, tell him that he shouldn't touch women.

She was wandless.

Helpless.

She didn't understand what he was referring to. What Christmas had to do with anything. The man straightened up and squared his shoulders. "You will not have me repeat myself. Hold out your wrists. Right now."

She obeyed. With a quiet spell, he tied her wrists with a sturdy rope.

"I don't see how this is necess—"

"Shut up. Come with me."

She followed him out of her cell.

The man led her out of the dungeons, along the dark, damp corridors of the castle. As she listened to the sound of their footsteps, she noticed that the place seemed... deserted. She had a thousand questions. Were her parents alive? Were there other players? Where was he taking her? What did a Gamemaster do exactly?

Would she compete against people she loved?

Would she die?

Could she win?

Where was Nagini?

Where was Draco?

"Where are you taking me?" she asked. Her tongue was pasty, sticking to the roof of her mouth. "Aren't you gonna give me water? Food?"

The gamemaster kept walking, ignoring her.

She kept going. "I suppose you can't kill me, since you tricked me into capture, so this means you need something from m—"

The man spun around sharply and smacked her across the face with the leathery palm of his hand. The snap reverberated through the bowels of the castle. A shocked cry escaped her mouth before the prickling sensation of flames washed over her face.

"Bloody hell, shut up!" he yelled.

She kept her head low, letting the burn spread through her whole face. The familiar taste of rust filled her mouth—one of her teeth had probably pierced the inside of her lip. She had been slapped twice in… two days? And both times it was to get her to shut up.

The Gamemaster pointed at her. "From now on, you keep your mouth shut until someone speaks to you directly, you little cunt. I don't want to hear you whine, mumble, blink or breathe. Got that?"

"What the actual fuck is taking so long, Lestrange?" a mellow voice boomed across the dimly lit hallway.

Hermione's eyes jumped to the newcomer. A tall figure was striding towards them, dressed in a dark colour. The click of paws on the ground followed him. He had no cloak, no overcoat. He had black combat boots that reached the top of his ankles and like the Gamemaster, black-gloved hands. His steps were steady, solid—marching at a pace that seemed almost military.

She had a vision of a lieutenant approaching to scold his soldiers. His face was gaunter than it had been four years ago, his features draconian, as if he had endured a decade of misery instead of just a few years. His gaze was icy, distant, a shadow under his eyebrows. When he reached them, he paid no attention to her, like she wasn't even there, and stopped in front of the Gamemaster. Standing tall and poised, inches above the masked man.

His dog stopped and waited for orders, ears upright.

She couldn't decide if she was glad for Draco Malfoy's intervention. She kept her eyes level with the men's shoulders, unsure if she really wanted to peer into her former classmate's eyes.

"The mudblood keeps asking questions," the Gamemaster muttered.

Malfoy blinked and his gaze slid furtively to her, down to her mouth, her swollen lip, the crimson blotch on her cheek, the bead of blood that was beginning to trickle down her chin.

"I see."He looked back at Lestrange. "I'll take it from here."

She lowered her gaze even more, resting on Malfoy's dog. The German shepherd was watching her with rapt attention. Hermione knew this dog could tear her to shreds if it decided to.

"Not necessary," the Gamemaster answered.

Malfoy raised his palm to interrupt his forthcoming excuses. "Dolohov sent me. Return to your post."

Lestrange didn't move immediately. Instead, he swivelled towards Hermione, bringing his hand up to her face once more to brush a fingertip against her. "Sorry for this, sweetheart. Wasn't personal."

She could hear the smile behind his mask. "Yes it was." Her voice snapped like an iron rod. She dodged the Gamemaster's touch and he turned on his heel, walking away in the direction Malfoy had appeared.

They listened as the hum of his footsteps diminished until they couldn't hear him at all. The dog huffed, tongue out of its mouth, mood suddenly shifting.

She cleared her throat after a moment. "Erm... hi."

Malfoy nodded very slightly. But he didn't say anything.

Why was she feeling so awkward? Because the last time they'd seen each other he was supposed to have killed her and instead he'd stopped her from killing herself?

"Does it hurt?" Malfoy asked simply, three crisp syllables.

She hesitated for a second too long. "Not really", she lied.

He scrutinised her, reading her expression. Then he pivoted on his heels. "Follow me."

Maybe he was addressing his dog, but Hermione obeyed too. She ran her thumb over the mark on her left wrist.

"What questions were you asking him?" he asked, chin high, not dignifying her with a glance.

"Oh—" She thought for a moment. The right side of her face still throbbed with the ghost of the slap. How many more times would she be hit? Strangely, something deep inside her knew Malfoy wouldn't be the next one to do it.

"Granger?" he halted, and she nearly ran into his back.

"Yes?"

"You didn't answer."

"Right. Well—I was telling him I was hungry and thirsty. And that I want to see my parents, since the whole reason I'm here is because you told me you had captured my— "

"They."

She gaped at him. "Excuse me?"

He started walking again. "I didn't capture your parents."

"The pronoun was more like a general 'you'," she explained, frowning. Why did she have to explain that?

To this, he scoffed almost imperceptibly. He pulled a green apple from his pocket—she hadn't noticed a pocket on him—and threw it over his shoulder. "Eat this," he ordered.

Grateful for her reflexes, she caught the apple midair, her wrists still tied. She wasn't going to argue. She wondered for a moment if the fruit was poisoned, but she figured that they would have already killed her if they really wanted her dead. Besides, poisoning an apple was very… mugglelish, even for Malfoy. She wasn't sure he knew about Snow White's tale. She bit hungrily into the fruit.

"So they really are here?" she asked, chewing while increasing her speed. She had to take two steps while Malfoy took just one. "They really were captured?" She was hoping for a straight answer.

"Yes."

"Can I see them?"

"They don't remember you, Granger." His voice had turned cold once again.

"I-I know that."

"So what are you expecting?"

"I just want to see for myself. I want to know if they are—"

"Fed? Hurt?"

"— alive." She cleared her throat. She took another bite of apple.

They were now out of the cold dampness of the dungeons and up into brighter parts of the castle. Hermione could see more clearly now that Malfoy wasn't wearing black, but navy blue. His apparel was a long-sleeved navy linen shirt, tucked in a pair of slim-fit trousers of the same colour. He had a black belt, and black leather armbands on each of his arms. He had had another band around his right thigh to sheathe his wand. On the back of his uniform was stitched the grey symbol of the games.

She had to focus to look away.

Instead, she looked around at the place that had once been so familiar and precious to her. She couldn't detect the remains of a battle, everything had been repaired. Everything was so... clean, orderly, symmetrical. Austere. Foreign.

"Take my word for it, Granger," Malfoy advised.

"No offence, but your word doesn't mean anything."

"As you wish." His voice had switched back to a curt tone.

As they ascended the spiral staircase, the sound of their soles on the floor changed. It was no longer a muffled sound, but more transparent, clearer.

She frowned at the floor. "Is that... marble?"

"Yes."

"What, when—"

"There were some changes." His replies were short, clipped, now. Hermione hated the fact that he answered things that she could see for herself.

They were now passing through a corridor in the castle that was to the east of the inner courtyard. She glanced to her left. In the centre of the inner courtyard, paved with flat stones of different shades of grey, stood a bare tree whose branches rose several metres above the ground, like skeletal arms reaching for the sky. The courtyard was bordered by a balustrade on the east and north sides, intersected by pillars made of what appeared to be stone, with veins of black marble snaking around them.

Malfoy was gaining distance in front of her, his strides longer than hers. His dog followed loyally, close to his body—she had never seen an animal that seemed so well trained.

Was Draco Malfoy training dogs? Was this his new role? She hadn't spotted another dog yet.

He slowed his speed, without even looking at her, knowing that she was struggling to keep up. She accelerated to walk at his pace, just one step behind. She finished her apple, keeping the core between her index finger and thumb. It felt wrong to toss it away right here.

She kept count of all the changes she could see. Having passed the inner courtyard, they were now entering a sunlit wing of the castle. The corridors were wide, the stone on the walls lighter, but the floors were now slabs of black marble with white ghostly streaks.

They passed another man dressed in grey, but this one was not wearing a mask. He acknowledged Malfoy's presence alongside his dog, and his gaze drifted to the young woman behind him. His smirk parted his lips. Their eyes met.

Hermione shivered. A myriad of questions raced through her mind, churning in her head. Her analytical skills were having a field day. The man—Lestrange— who had dragged her out of her cell was wearing a mask and had introduced himself as her High Gamemaster—she knew he was related to Bellatrix, somehow. The man who had just walked in front of them was similarly dressed, but without the mask. A lower rank, maybe?

Okay—so the Wizards and Witches chasing them in the outside world were Scavengers, wearing black. The Gamemasters wore grey. And Draco— what was navy? She knew he had been a Scavenger before.

She couldn't guess his role, or his rank. Could she ask?

"Does he follow you everywhere?" she asked instead.

At Malfoy's brief pause, she hastened to clarify. "Your dog, I mean."

"Yes."

"I think he remembers me."

Alerted, Malfoy glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. "You can't mention that in here," he hissed, shooting her a hateful look—no, was it fear?

Hermione immediately understood. No one knew what had happened between them three years ago. And she suspected Malfoy would be in trouble if they did.

"But yes, she does," he confirmed, weighing the pronoun to correct her. "It's your scent."

They passed the old Transfiguration classroom. The door was no longer a rudimentary wooden door, but a black door covered in lacquered varnish, with a cream-coloured label in the centre. Tacticals.

Further on, another person was walking in the opposite direction, towards them, this time dressed in the same outfit as Malfoy—a navy blue uniform, thick-soled black boots. Her mind started working again. He and Malfoy had the same role, or rank, that she could understand.

He looked familiar. Once closer, she recognised him. Blaise Zabini.

He was in the Room of Requirement with them when the Fiendfyre had occurred.

Blaise and Malfoy exchanged a nod when they were level, without either of them stopping. Blaise continued on his way without a glance at her.

Malfoy and Hermione passed three doors identical to the first, but this time the labels read Spar I, Spar II and Spar III.

She gulped.

Where was she?

Before reaching the Great Hall, Malfoy turned right, leading her into another maze of corridors.

"Where are we going?" she asked, a few steps behind him.

"The Sorting Ceremony."

She frowned, brain snagging on this information. "Wait, just like—"

"It's not what you think. It's an… event."

Hermione's heart leapt in her chest, beating wildly. "I thought the games didn't start until September 1st."

A brief pause. "This isn't the games."

They finally stopped before a set of double doors that were twice Malfoy's height. He whirled around abruptly, facing her, and she realised that the distance between them wasn't big. In fact, she could smell him.

He smelled… woody, citrusy and—laundry.

"Remember what I'm gonna tell you," he said hastily, a hint of caution in his throat. He paused so that she could soak up his next words. "Choose your questions more wisely."

A silence.

She scoffed. "Anything else?"

He clenched his teeth. "I'm serious. You ask too many questions. They don't like it when one's so chatty."

"I'm not—"

"Filter your fucking questions. Don't ask the first thing that comes to your mind. Don't question everything. To sum up, choose your questions or keep your mouthshut."

Her lips pursed in a thin line. "Butyoulet me ask my questions."

The corner of his mouth twitched. The birth of a smirk. "I got six years of practice. They didn't." True to form, he reshaped his expression, any trace of familiarity vanishing.

She frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"

He didn't answer, but his eyes slid for half a second to her split lip, the shade of her bruise, and then immediately back up again.

"This is not Hogwarts anymore." Hard, clipped tone again. He snatched the browned core of the apple she still held in her hand and turned around, discussion over, pushing the doors open with his palms.

She stepped into his shadow, behind his hunched shoulders, completely hidden behind his silhouette from anyone who would look at Malfoy from the front.

Stepping into the room, leaving his shadow aside, Hermione realised the amount of time he had said they instead of we.