After the Sorting Ceremony, Hermione was escorted back by a limping Gamemaster. The man didn't say a word to her, and she allowed silence to fall over the walk.
When she was pushed back into her cell, she stayed on the stone floor. A few minutes later, a house-elf appeared to slip her a tray of food. A loaf of bread the size of her fist, a cold, dry chicken breast and a glass of water.
She ate without hunger and curled up in the foetal position on the floor.
Sleep overcame her, lulling her into the darkness of a soundless nightmare. She awoke a few hours later under the glow of the lanterns. For the first time, she heard another noise, not too far away.
She strained her ear.
Someone was sobbing.
It sounded like a man.
Hermione had no words of hope or optimism to utter. She still had cat's hair on her wet clothes. She buried her face in the shelter of her arms and sobbed until she was dry.
"Rise and shine," Lestrange's husky voice roused her from her languid state. She unfolded herself and rose slowly to her feet, feeling her sore joints crack. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she blinked several times before making out the grey silhouette of the man unlocking her cell.
"I'm enjoying today," he told her, opening the door.
She said nothing as the thoughts of what she had done yesterday flooded back to her memory, reigniting her self-hatred.
"Don't you know what day it is?" Lestrange called, hoping she would take the bait.
She didn't.
"It's September 1st." Lestrange tied her wrists and she was struck with a sense of déjà vu. "Your first day as a player." Nonchalant and lacking strength, she let him lead her out of the dungeons, up the stairs, before starting to walk into the castle.
She had already made this trip, so she focused on observing other things besides the premises. The castle was buzzing with activity and movement. She wasn't the only person being escorted—other players, she guessed—and there were several people wearing uniforms, walking in all directions.
Grey uniforms for the most part, a few navy uniforms, and only a handful of black uniforms. She saw very few Death Eaters. She was dismayed to see so many house-elves milling about in dirty rags. Some were carrying baskets of towels in their frail arms, others were pushing carts with piles of neatly folded uniforms.
Hogwarts wasn't a school anymore. It felt... like an institute. Military.
Lestrange led her through the corridors she'd already been through. They passed the Sorting Ceremony room—the doors were closed—and went to the end of the corridor, where a large, wide stained-glass window adorned the wall, drinking in the light. The panes depicted a snake writhing on itself.
They turned left. They turned right. And one last turn to the right.
She was in front of a long narrow corridor with a single door at the far end. There were other people tied up like her, in a single file, waiting to walk through the door.
"Go ahead and wait for your turn," Lestrange said behind her. He pushed her behind the last person in line and she stumbled forward, hitting the man's back.
The man she'd bumped into from behind jerked back and turned around.
Hermione blushed with shame, apologising even though it wasn't her fault.
He was older and overweight, a beard growing on his face. "S'fine."
She offered him a weak smile and another person came up behind her. Every minute, she made progress, moving forward a step or two. She waited for what felt like an hourin line before arriving at the far-end door.
A Gamemaster in a silver mask was standing in front of it, carrying a scroll and a quill. "Your name."
She gave it to him, examining him ticking something off. A list, presumably.
"Enter." The door opened without anyone touching it, and she stepped into the new place. The door slammed behind her, and darkness shrouded her in absolute silence. It was as if there was no one behind the door even though she knew there were still dozens of people behind her. The air was humid, but tinged with a whiff of... something soapy. Medical.
"Hello?" she asked into the darkness.
"Hermione Granger." A woman's voice, warm and benevolent, answered her. Hermione couldn't pinpoint the voice, it seemed to bounce off all sides at once. "Please, hold out your wrists."
She obeyed, and she felt the pressure of the bonds release. She was untied. She thought she'd heard that voice before, but she knew she couldn't quite identify it "Are you in the room with me?" she asked.
The woman, wherever she was, ignored her. "Please take off your clothes."
A knot formed in Hermione's throat. An uneasy feeling came over her. "...What are you going to do to me?" Uncertainty altered her voice.
A brief pause. "Please take off your clothes. We're just going to clean you up a bit."
"Who's we?"
Suddenly, a burning sensation tingled at her wrist. She hissed in pain, rubbing her thumb over the symbol etched in her skin.
"Don't question us," the woman ordered. "Please take off your clothes."
She gritted her teeth. Asking questions...thatwas breaking the rules? She obeyed nonetheless.
She pursed her lips. "…Everything?"
"Yes."
Hermione undressed and stood naked in the damp room, feeling like a worm.
"This won't hurt," said the woman.
Before Hermione could wonder what she was referring to, a spray of soapy mist covered her entire body. The soap didn't give off an overly strong scent, just a light touch of lavender, and soft sponges began to scrub the dirt from her body. A stiffer brush went to her scalp, rubbing the roots of her hair to lather up a shampoo she hadn't felt settle.
She had never felt more uncomfortable. Being washed like that in the dark, completely naked and alone, under the gaze of a stranger—who might not be alone. Maybe she was being observed by several pairs of eyes at this moment.
After three minutes, she was rinsed clean and a warm breeze blew over her. A drying spell. Even her hair dried immediately.
"Please put on the clothes in front of you." The woman kept saying 'please', but Hermione could discern an order when she heard one. A faint magical glow illuminated the room, and she squinted. She could see that the room was small and made entirely of stone. There was a drain in the centre of the floor. Another door stood in front of her, with a chair beside it.
Her clothes were gone.
Instead, on the chair, was a pile of folded clothes, and a pair of black lace-up boots underneath. A vial was stored in one of the boots. Hermione examined the items one by one.
A pair of black socks.
A jumpsuit in a dark colour that looked like brown, but it was difficult to see precisely in the dim light. By feel, she guessed it was linen. But she didn't miss the large white numbers sewn into the back, and the same one, smaller, on top of the right breast.41.
And finally, a black tank bra that clasped at the front. Made for support and practicality.
She dressed wordlessly, retrieving the vial from the boot. "What is this?"
"A very strong contraceptive potion."
Her eyes were cast down on the vial, getting warm in the palm of her hand. She hadn't had her periods in months, although she wasn't on any muggle pills or contraceptive potion. She had stopped thinking about sex for a while now.
Her body had simply shut down with stress and instability. Now she didn't think twice about tampons or pills or potions—but turns out the Empire had thought of it.
Something icky sang in her veins. "Are you… expecting me to have sex here?" Her fingers clenched around the vial.
"That is none of our business. It's for the sake of your personal comfort and… efficiency."
Her eyes darted up around her. "Efficiency?" Her tattoo started to itch, but she ignored it.
"No one is truly efficient with menstrual cramps." A brief pause. "We also can't allow any… complications. Take it."
She wasn't against taking a contraceptive potion. But the idea of the Empire controlling this intimate aspect of her life and body filled her with disgust.
"How long will it last?" she asked, exhaling her fury.
"Three months. Another one will be delivered to you." The woman's voice shifted, turning slightly unkind. "Take it."
Hermione uncapped the vial and drank it in one swig. It was tasteless.
The voice rang through the room again. "Please tell me if you want to tie your hair."
She touched her hair with her fingertips. Her hair only fell above her breasts, but she didn't know what kind of movement she was going to have to make. Would it be better to tie them up?
"Um... yes?" she said.
"Reach into your pocket."
She thrust her hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit. In the left pocket of her outfit was hidden—or perhaps it had just appeared—a simple hair elastic.
"It's unbreakable, but it's the only one you'll have. Don't lose it," advised the woman.
Out of reflex, Hermione made a single small braid with her hair behind her neck and tied it up. The glow faded and darkness returned to the room.
"In fifteen seconds, you'll be able to open this door." On cue, the lock clicked open. "Good luck, number 41," finished the voice.
Hermione left the room and was absorbed in a sea of numbers. She had appeared in the Great Hall, her body shoved aside by other uniforms bearing the same colour as hers. It was more like a hazelnut brown. Everyone was dressed the same, though. Black lace-up boots. Brown jumpsuit. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw the normal entrance to the Great Hall, guarded by three Gamemasters. She had come out of the room this way.
A magical route, or a forced, smooth apparition.
She tried to look over the heads of the people in front of her, but she was no taller. It seemed to her that the crowd was moving forward, but she felt stifled all the same.
A hand landed on her shoulder and startled her. She dodged it, mistakenly pushing a woman, number 24, to her right.
Mr. Weasley was standing in front of her, his face thinned and his skin pale. He seemed to have more wrinkles than ever
Hermione's heart leapt in her chest in shock. "Oh, Merlin," she breathed before moving towards him to hug him. "Mr. Weasley!"
She hadn't seen him since Harry's burial.
"They got you, too?" He ran his hand over his face. "Are you okay, Hermione?" he asked, stepping back to examine her face. "Is Ginny still with you?"
"She's okay. Neville too. Are you...?"
He was wearing number 47.
Her heart clenched at the thought of the sons he had lost. "How's everyone?" she asked.
Arthur couldn't answer, interrupted. "Players," boomed a loud voice in the Great Hall. "Find a seat."
As more and more people were herded towards the centre of the room and took their seats, she could make out her surroundings better. She tried to see if she recognised another face, but everyone was moving too fast. There were no longer four large tables where Hogwarts students used to gather to eat. There were now rows of benches facing the large windows at the back. In place of the staff table was now a small dais with three tiers. On each tier stood a row of people in uniform.
On the first tier were four Gamemasters all wearing identical uniforms and black masks—Hermione had only seen one black mask during the Sorting Ceremony.
On the second tier, five people wearing navy blue uniforms were standing. Draco was the last, Blaise the fourth. They had their hands behind their backs and were staring absently around the room.
On the last, uppermost tier stood six Death Eaters, wearing elegant, ceremonial robes. Their pointed hoods were pulled down over their heads.
Hermione recognised Dolohov—she had fought him in a café. He had probably recovered his memories. And two others she had seen at the Ministry of Magic in the Department of Mysteries.
Where was Voldemort?
Arthur followed close behind, and they sat down on a bench, their shoulders pressed against others. Movement faded in the room. The people on the tiers stood as still as marble statues.
"I recognize some faces," Arthur began, looking in the same direction as Hermione.
"Me too."
"Those bastards."
"Silence!" A seventh Death Eater materialised in a cloud of black smoke in front of the rows of benches. The commotion in the room died down.
Hermione knew who it was. Yaxley. And from the way she saw Arthur clench his fists in his lap out of the corner of her eye, she knew he knew him too. Arthur had had encounters with Death Eaters before, she just wasn't sure which ones.
"Welcome, players of the Seventh edition, to the Empire's games," Yaxley began. "Well done, you're the lucky ones who made it through the first stage. We had 78 people, and only 50 passed the Sorting Ceremony. A round, beautiful number."
Yaxley wore an amused, almost complicit smile, but only silence greeted him in return. Behind him, everyone was motionless, standing stiff as a board.
Looking at the backs of the heads of the players in front of her, Hermione suddenly imagined what 'corpse' the others had brought back. Had all of them brought back animal corpses, or did some of them bring humans?
Remembering the tabby stray cat sniffing her fingers, deciding to trust her, she shivered and refused to think about it any further.
"I'll get straight to the point, and I won't repeat any of this," Yaxley continued, starting to pace in front of them. "There will be four games, spaced out every two months. Each one takes place on the first day of the month. They will be held in November, January, March and May. Not all of you will make it through these games. In the end, only one champion will remain."
Hermione felt the players around her hold their breath. She kept her gaze riveted on the number sitting in front of her.26. The curves of the numbers bending with the folds of the uniform.
Yaxley crossed his hands behind his back and paused to continue "You probably wonder what happens to the champion. They are provided with safety and unlimited supplies in the location of their choice. It is truly a gift each one of you has access to." He paused again.
"The two months between the games will be for training. Each Trainer will be assigned to a group of 10 players. The purpose of the training will be to prepare you for the next game, without you knowing what it is, while keeping an emphasis on improving your fitness."
Why? Hermione wanted to shout. What was the point of training them if it was only to die in the next game? What was the point of training if all of them were going to die except one?
"Butwhyindeed?" Yaxley scoffed, in sync with her thoughts. "Why train you?" He paused only for dramatic effect, and she wanted to roar with annoyance.
"People pay to watch you. You provide entertainment. Our end of the deal is to at least offer them entertainment worthy of the price, with players who are capable of withstanding trials and conquering games. You are a merchandise, a service. You're there to put on a good show."
Bile rose in her throat, anger flaring in her abdomen. This was sick. Somewhere in the room, she could hear someone crying silently, sniffling. She wished she had any cry left in her.
"Now, for the more practical aspect," Yaxley went on, clapping his hands once, the sound slamming around the room, startling a few nervous players. He held out his arm behind him to show the people on the tiers. "In grey, these are your Gamemasters. They'll be running the games. Those in the black masks are the High Gamemasters. You will also see regular Gamemasters wearing silver masks."
Yaxley pointed to the second tier. "Here you see your Trainers: Lana Rathmore, Liam Crane, Alecto Carrow, Blaise Zabini and Draco Mafoy. You'll recognise them by their navy-blue uniforms. You will shortly be assigned to your Trainer." He paused and looked intently at the players. "Heed my words. After you have been assigned your Trainer, you are forbidden to communicate with any other Trainer."
Hermione frowned, gulping. Her gaze was hovering on Malfoy's face. His features from afar looked like marble stone.
Finally, Yaxley raised his arm towards the highest tier. "I believe these need no introduction. You shall obey anything the Death Eaters tell you. Don't. Question. Them." He moved back to the centre of the room, crossing his arms behind his back again. "If it makes you feel any better, the other players can't kill you between games. And for everyone standing on the tiers behind me... they can't harm or kill you between the games."
How good was their word, anyway? Her bitterness tasted sour on her tongue. Death Eaters, or Gamemasters or Trainers, whatever you called them, were strips of the same fabric. They were liars, manipulators, killers.
She couldn't help noticing that Yaxley had simply mentioned 'can't kill' for the players, and 'can't harm or kill' for the others.
Was this intentional?
Could players harm each other?
"Now, listen carefully. Players who are in the same group with a Trainer are called a band. We will take no responsibility for any harm that comes to you between the games, but we suggest you don't create enemies unnecessarily. Keep it for the games."
Yaxley turned his back on them to look at the Trainers. "If you would come forward, Trainers, please."
The Trainers came down from the tiers and stepped forward, placing themselves just behind Yaxley, equidistant from each other.
Yaxley looked at the players. "Now, when you hear your number, you will come in line in front of your assigned Trainer. You will not speak or talk."
Hermione glanced at Arthur, and placed her hand on his. The warmth of his hand felt good.
Yaxley cleared his throat and pointed to the first Trainer—a tall, Black woman, her tightly braided hair falling to the middle of her hips. "Players 1 to 10 included, go to Trainer Rathmore. Players 11 to 20, go to Trainer Crane. Players 21 to 30, go to Trainer Carrow."
Hermione calculated quickly and her mouth went dry.
Yes.
Yes, her assigned Trainer would be—
"Players 31 to 40, go to Trainer Zabini. Finally, players 41 to 50, go to Trainer Malfoy."
Her palms clammed up and she loosened her grip on Arthur's hand. Thank Merlin that Arthur would be with her. Hermione stood up on unsteady legs amidst the hustle and bustle of all the other players rising to their feet. Arthur stayed beside her and they threaded their way in the crowd, towards Draco Malfoy.
The others had assumed that they had to stand in ascending order in front of the Trainers. Numbers 43, 44, 49 and 50 were in line, having left plenty of space in front of Malfoy. Hermione looked at them briefly but decided it wasn't time to engage in conversations. She saved the introductions for later.
Arthur left her to go stand in front of number 49.
She kept her eyes locked on Malfoy's face. He was staring straight ahead, a full head above all the players in front of him, as if nothing could catch his attention or deflect it. Silently, She moved to the head of the line, her body less than a two feet from Malfoy's.
Draco Malfoy was before her.
Draco Malfoy would train her.
Gradually, the sound of the other players moving around subsided and everyone found their place. Hermione did not turn to see the person who had just slipped in behind her. She kept her hands folded behind her back, chin up, glaring at her Trainer. Daring him to look at her, to pay attention to her, anything at all.
But Malfoy kept looking ahead, unmoving. Stationary.
"Now that you've found your Trainer," Yaxley resumed, having moved to the second tier to be higher up, "I'll leave it to them to guide you on. They'll direct you to your dormitories and explain the last little details specific to the schedule. Please note that their role is not to cuddle you, reassure you, congratulate you, encourage you or, worse still, be your friend. Their sole role is to toughen you up and teach you how to survive. Nothing else."
Hermione's heart skipped a beat when Malfoy finally looked down at her. He lingered for only a few fleeting seconds, and she detected a deep, impetuous energy in his metallic eyes before he looked back up at the wall.