When Hermione entered the room, she froze in surprise. She didn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't this. She let her eyes roam the room. The walls were covered in rough-hewn stone, the colour of ash, and to her right, four large vertical windows stretched to within inches of the ceiling, side by side. Daylight poured in like a flood, draping the room in crisp luminosity. The floor was driftwood of a mahogany brown. The ceiling was black—she suspected it was marble by the way it seemed to glisten—and a silver chandelier hung in its centre.
Four hooded men, each wearing a grey uniform and a snake mask, stood at the four corners of the room. Their bodies were facing the middle of the room. The fifth man was standing in the centre of the room, his hands crossed behind his back, facing them. His mask was not silver, but black.
The room was far too large for just five people—six with her.
"Come forward," the man in the middle commanded her.
Hermione didn't have time to turn back to Malfoy before she heard the hinges creak again. He had just closed the door behind him, leaving her alone in the room.
Heart pounding in her chest, she slowly walked forward. She stopped six feet in front of the man. She could think of at least nine scenarios how this could go awry.
"State your name," he ordered.
"Hermione Granger."
"Know that you will only be allowed one question at the end. Pay attention and choose wisely." The man paused briefly. "Hermione Granger, you have been selected to partake in the seventh edition of the Empire's games and you were hereby summoned to the Sorting Ceremony."
She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from asking questions at the moment. Also, she hadn't beenselected,she'd been dragged out. She now understood what Malfoy had just told her before walking through the door. Filter your questions. Choose wisely.
The man continued his explanation. "The Sorting Ceremony is a process that allows us to separate weakness from strength, fragility from resilience and lack of talent from competence. You will not be sorted into Houses. We will sort the players who are worthy from those who aren't."
A shiver ran down her spine.
"Even though most people taking part in the Empire's games are ordinary people, we will not admit players who cannot pass the Sorting Ceremony. The games are first and foremost entertainment, and there's nothing more annoying than a player who gets eliminated for weakness of character, incompetence or lack of will. Our audience pays for a good show."
Hermione waited for the rest, shoving her questions down her throat. She didn't know how to choose the right question to ask. The most helpful, the most relevant. It was a nightmare for someone like her. There were many things she wanted to ask; where was her wand? were her parents alive? when could she eat? when they said 'eliminated', did they mean 'killed'? Her heart was still beating rapidly, but she ignored it.
She wondered if Malfoy was waiting—or listening—on the other side of the door.
"Today, I'll only ask you one thing." The man in the black snake mask continued. "You have two hours to bring back a corpse."
Her heart plummeted like a stone.
"Wand is not allowed. Apparition is allowed. Killing is allowed. If the corpse is unconscious, you fail. If the corpse wears an Empire uniform, you fail. If the corpse has no skin on its bones, you fail. If you don't come back within the time limit, you fail and you die. When you entered the Empire, you got branded."
She brushed the tattoo on her wrist, her mouth dry. They were asking her to bring back death.
"That ink is poison that will boil your insides in under a minute. Cheating or breaking the rules will trigger its release into your bloodstream." A pause. "Of course, we don't trust you, so a Scavenger will accompany you during your trial."
The man stopped speaking, and Hermione wondered if now was her time to ask a question. But she didn't know which one to choose.
Should she kill the corpse herself?
Could someone else kill it for her?
Could she bring back the body of someone who had been dead for decades, but who had been impeccably preserved?
Would her parents only survive if she participated, or did she have to win in order for their lives to be spared?
"You may ask your question, Hermione Granger." The masked man gave her permission with a nod.
Quickly. She had to think fast. What was she supposed to ask? Were they tricking her? Was this her occasion of asking for food? Was there an obvious question she had to ask and if she didn't, she would fail the Sorting Ceremony because she had to know?
Maybe she could play smart and ask if there were any loopholes?
In the end, there was one thing that would make all the difference in whether she succeeded or failed.
"Does the corpse have to be human?" Her voice trembled. She hated that shrill sound.
"No."
Her hopes didn't falter entirely, but she shivered. How could she kill an animal without her wand. She could bring back a human corpse if she found one with skins on its bones. The Gamemaster—she guessed it was a Gamemaster because he was dressed in grey—had said that the body had to have skin on the bones. So it couldn't be an old skeleton rotting in a grave or an animal carcass.
The man conjured up a pocket watch and clutched it in his gloved hand. "On the other side of this door, you'll find the Scavenger who'll tag along to make sure you follow the rules." With his other hand, he waved his wand at her, untying her wrists. He glanced at his watch. "Your two hours start now."
She turned on her heels, ready to walk through the doors.
"Oh, I forgot to mention," the man raised his voice behind her, a smile tinging his tone, "I'll search your mind to see how you killed the corpse upon your return, should you choose killing."
She left the room, only to find Theodore Nott on the other side of the door, dressed in Scavenger black.
As soon as Draco had closed the doors behind Granger, he had left. He walked with a decisive step, retracing his steps, and came face to face with Theo.
"Wait," Draco frowned. "Are you—"
"Yeah." Theo pursed his lips. "I'm escorting her."
Draco had the strange impression that he would have preferred to be a Scavenger at this instant. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll need a Firewhiskey tonight."
"I'll bring the bottle," Theo said, bumping him on the shoulder, "you bring your miserable self."
They passed each other, Theo continuing on his way toward the Sorting Ceremony room. Draco kept walking, and Keela barked once behind him, following close behind. She huffed and nudged her nose in his leg.
He threw the apple's core in the nearest trash bin he saw. They passed through the inner courtyard again, and this time he headed for it. He took a seat on a white granite bench under the balding tree and gripped the edges. After a moment's silence, Keela sat down in front of him, examining him, before whining softly.
"I know, Kee," Draco murmured. "I know."
Why had he spoken to Granger so much? Why had he advised her? He knew the rules of the Empire's games, but especially the rules of the Trainers. Don't humanise them. Don't have conversations with them.
But Granger—it was different for her. He knew her. She wasn't a stranger. She really was a stubborn witch, with a temper and a unique... fire. He had begun to notice that in his fifth year, but more pressing concerns had soon replaced those ideas.
He shook his head in disbelief. That was ten years ago.
He had seen these attributes in Granger in fifth year, and had simply admitted that they were qualities that any Hogwarts student should have. But this wasn't Hogwarts anymore and her 'qualities' would only earn her the hatred and scorn of everyone.
Keela barked quietly.
"Quiet," he hushed. "You know they don't like to hear you yapping in here."
She laid her head in his lap, her chocolate eyes raised to him. He scratched her ears, his mind elsewhere.
Fifteen minutes later, another Gamemaster, but not Lestrange—Draco guessed it was Sankros by his slight limp—was escorting another prisoner towards the Sorting Ceremony room, passing the inner courtyard.
Draco stopped.
A flash of russet. Worn-out clothes. Face hollowed by wrinkles.
The gamemaster was escorting Arthur Weasley to the Sorting Ceremony.
Keela turned her head, watching the two figures now disappear around the corner of a corridor, and whimpered, mirroring her master's emotions.
Feeling suddenly ill, he stood quickly and walked away, leaving the castle. He left the grounds and walked along the dirt path, the tall grass brushing against his uniform, and headed west. He passed under the Whomping Willow, trying to ignore the fact that right now Granger was looking for—or killing—a corpse somewhere and Arthur was thinking of a relevant question to ask.
He ignored the gaping hole the sight of the willow gave him.
He thought about going to the lodge but changed his mind. The fresh air did him good. It was about twenty minutes later that he arrived to Cindermore, formerly Hogsmeade. The village had been razed and pillaged on the same day as the Battle. Half the inhabitants had fled, a quarter had surrendered to the Death Eaters and the rest of them were dead.
Cindermore was one of the Empire's main sites to rise. A spiral street had been built, and the Death Eaters' mansions erected all around it. The centre was Voldemort's quarters. Of course he had his own mansion, surrounded by his people.
Draco walked through the iron gate towards Malfoy House. On each side of the gates were intricate topiaries, standing tall like towers, and rosebushes arranged in a symmetrical pattern. He didn't miss the Manor. The House here was different,warmer and smaller. He walked to the third house in the spiral. Maybe the order of the house in the spiral meant something, but he didn't know what it was. Importance? Loyalty? Lestrange, Dolohov and Yaxley's mansions were the closest to the middle.
Draco didn't use the gryphon-shaped iron knocker on the door and let himself in. "It's me," he called. The House was taller than larger. The floors were made of driftwood waxed to perfection, so that they reflected the steps. The furniture was all ebony, and the walls were covered in the same floral tapestry—pine green and cream—except in the kitchen. Keela followed him inside but stayed seated at the entrance. The dog had never liked coming in here because of the cat.
"Draco?" his mother called from the kitchen. He heard the oven door close shut. "In here."
He walked to the kitchen. The space was bright, with light streaming in through the windowpanes in the centre of the far wall. A scalding cake was cooling off on the stovetop, still in its mold. The kitchen island, with its white sides and wooden worktop, was covered with cooking utensils, bowls and ingredients. Broken eggshells, vanilla extract, flour, sugar.
"You're baking." Draco observed. One thing his mother liked to do without magic was baking. Narcissa had gifted Poppy, their former house-elf, with a piece of clothing seven years ago, after Lucius died. Since then, she did the chores herself—some with magic, some without. It didn't surprise him or offend him anymore.
"Hi, love," she said, stirring something in a bowl. Buttercream? Meringue? He couldn't tell.
"What's the occasion?" he asked.
"Just our book club."
A white cat slid between his legs—Snowflake, his mother's cat—rubbing its head against his calves. Draco ignored the fact that it was leaving its fur all over him. Keela was going to lose her mind.
"What's the book this month?" Small talk was easy with his mother.
"It's the last book of the Narnia chronicles." She pointed to the stool in front of the kitchen island with her spatula. "It's fascinating to see a book filled with magic, yet nobody uses a wand."
Draco sat, and his mother eyed him. "I knew the minute you entered this door that you needed to talk."
It had just been the two of them for six years now. He was the one who had found the body of his father. Lucius had hung himself at the Whomping Willow, ten months or so after the fog's arrival. Not so long after the Battle, something inside his father had snapped and his reality shattered. He mumbled nonsense, talked to empty spaces, walked around at night, ate things he wasn't supposed to eat, like wood, fabric and hair. His mother had done her best.
Today, Narcissa was better. She smiled often and kept herself busy. They rarely spoke of him, but Draco noticed the glimpse of sadness that veiled her eyes when she thought he wasn't looking.
He unfastened the first buttons of his uniform, looking at the mess on the kitchen island. Snowflake sat down at the bottom of the stool.
His mother smiled, amused. "You know, I don't know what it is with you and animals, but they follow you everywhere."
"Must be my scent," he shrugged.
"And something else. They feel safe with you." She licked her finger. "I thought you were on duty today?"
"Not really. I did a couple of things here and there. Nothing important." He was withholding information from her.
Narcissa added flour to her mixture, waiting.
And waiting.
Finally, he sighed. "They keep bringing people I know into the games."
"Hermione Granger is getting sorted today. And so is Arthur Weasley. Yesterday, it was Cho Chang. And three days before that, Cormac McLaggen." Draco fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "Besides, I don't know… I don't know if I'll be able to train them. I know them."
"The same as you knew the previous players. It's not the first year that ex-students participate in the games." Narcissa took the cake out of the tin and placed it on the kitchen island. "So what is it about them?"
Draco shoved the ghost of her face away from his mind. Her hair, now shorter, framing her face. Her cheekbones, high and defined. Don't humanise them.
"I don't know," he answered. "It's just… not the same."
His mother began to butter the cake with her mixture. Icing, then. "Is it... her?"
Her. He knew she wasn't referring to Cho Chang.
Irritation flooded through him. "It's not like that, mother." He was grinding his teeth again, considering leaving early.
"I'm not assuming anything, love." She was focused on her cake. "It's just—from all the people you mentioned, she's the only one that…visited us at the Manor."
That's what his mother called the skirmish that had happened at the Manor seven years ago, when Harry and Ron were locked in the basement and Granger was being tortured by his aunt on their floor. On his darkest nights, it was her screams that woke him.
That fateful night, Draco had willingly and knowingly refused to identify Harry Potter. One quick glance at the disfigured man and he knew who he was. The glint in his eyes, the scratch on his forehead.
That night, when Voldemort arrived at an empty Manor, Lucius got demoted, humiliated and beaten.
He shook the memories out of his head. "Maybe. I don't know."
Narcissa stopped what she was doing, placing her hands on the worktop. She examined him with affection.
"I know you wish this didn't happen, Draco, I mean—" She gestured to the whole room. "—all of this. The Empire. The fog. The games. A mother senses those things. I can feel it from the way you walk, your posture, your eyes, your tone. I know how you talk to people, son. You are sad and angry. And most of all, like all of us, you are hopeless."
She blinked a few times, chasing the emotions out of her eyes, and returned to her cake. Draco felt something lukewarm and unsettling unfolding in his whole. It wasn't comfortable, being told how and what you were feeling. He always refused to acknowledge in others this look of utter despair and anger, hidden beneath layers of uniforms, masks and roles.
"He had already won the war, mother." His voice now had a faint trickle of uncertainty, wavering. "We had won. Was it—was all of this really necessary? We're here because we thought he hadendedthe war, but instead he created one all over again. It's a cycle. What do you think will happen if the players—the mudbloods or the muggles or anyone, really—revolt and wage us war? What if they win? Can you imagine the things they will do to us? It will start all over again, but with the roles reversed. This will never end—"
His mother snapped her fingers in front of his veiled eyes. "Hey, hey—Stop." Her stare was serious, her features hard. "You shouldn't speak such words here, boy. It is not safe. We shall not question the Dark Lord's ways."
Her reply sounded rehearsed.
He tasted ash in his mouth. "You said so yourself… you're hopeless."
Narcissa pursed her lips, and that was the end of the conversation. Draco left Cindermore about ten minutes later, the smell of warm cake wafting after him.
He walked back to the dorms, Keela at his sides.
For some time now, he had been aware of a troubling truth within the Empire. And his mother only now confirmed it, but she was afraid of it.
The players weren't the most hopeless persons amongst them.
About 108 minutes after she had been dismissed, Hermione apparated back to the castle with Theo. She was carrying a corpse in her arms, wrapped in a straw bag. She was dripping wet.
Her head was empty. Blank. Her thoughts unfinished.
The Death Eaters guarding the entrance opened the iron gate for her and she stepped inside.
"I know where to go," she croaked to Nott. "You can go."
He shook his head to signify no.
They entered the castle. She continued forward, one step at a time, escorted by him. The doors to the Sorting Ceremony room were wide open.
She entered unannounced.
Her hair dripped water on the floor. Spat spat spat.
The man in the black mask was still standing in the middle, as if he knew her return was imminent. "You're early," he said.
No reply.
She stopped in front of the Gamemaster, and gently lowered the bagged animal to the ground. The stiff body of a cat.
Her mind was silent.
Her thoughts had withdrawn,as if to give her privacy.
"I drowned him," Hermione stated, voice flat.
The Gamemaster looked expectantly to Theo, searching for confirmation, and Nott did a single nod.