It was Christmas Eve, and Granger was naked in a dark, stone room. The same one she had been washed and given her uniform. The same voice was speaking to her, but she couldn't calm the tremors of her hands.
Her hair were dripping droplets of water along the length of her back. The drying spell buzzed to life in the enchanted room. Unlike the first time she had been cleaned this way, it felt like invisible hands were rubbing her scalp. Smoothing and styling her hair that now fell between her shoulder blades.
The soap and shampoo were scented this time. They both smelled like strawberry fields.
"Is… Is there anything I can do to… not look good?" Hermione asked, although she knew she wasn't supposed to ask questions in this room.
"It's the way it has to be," the woman answered.
Hermione shuddered and wanted to scream. She was terrified. Had spent the last three weeks trying to find a way to escape this evening. So had Draco.
He had told her the tradition that occurred every Christmas Eve in the Empire. They hadn't managed to find a plan. Yet. She had a lot of ideas, most of which put Draco in more danger than she was. The Polyjuice potion—bottled and ready for Theo to take in eight days—had been thrown as an option, but she had refused.
She had also forgotten all about that kiss. This was obviously a lie she liked to repeat to herself, since she was thinking about his lips every time she saw him. She hadn't understood what had gotten into her that day, but it was done and over with. He had successfully rejected the kiss anyway and she refused to beat herself up about it.
"I have three colour options for the dress from which you can choose," the woman offered. "Silver, golden or emerald."
Hermione felt like falling on her knees and sobbing until she was dry. Nothing mattered less than a dress colour. Especially for the kind of night that was awaiting her.
Emerald reminded her too much of Slytherins—of Nagini, of the Killing Curse, of Harry's eyes.
Golden reminded her too much of Gryffindor—of her grief and the status everyone wanted her to bear, a 'golden player'.
"Silver," she decided. At least, it reminded her of his eyes.
The fabric wrapped around her and she couldn't grasp how that type of magic worked. She couldn't see the details of the dress, but heard the tinkling sounds of sequins, or maybe beads.
The dress fitted her shape like a second skin, although it hung a little loose around the hips. She had no underwear whatsoever.
"You've lost weight." The woman's voice was tinged—only slightly—with sadness. It wasn't a question, so Hermione didn't answer.
The dress fell to her ankles, with a split going to her upper thigh, dangerously close to her intimate area. She squirmed uncomfortably when she noticed she could feel the moisture of the room on her chest area. Cleavage. She patted herself, understanding that the fabric was covering only her nipples. She was pretty sure a very thin half-circle of her aureola was visible. A knot of nerves tightened in her stomach and she resisted the urge to wrap her arms around herself. The straps were the tiniest she'd ever seen, tight enough around her shoulders to support and uplift her chest.
Then she noticed her entire back was bare. The dress fell in a V-shape behind her back, exposing her skin, each protrusion of her vertebras.
Hermione fought back her tears as she kept her head up.
Something cold pressed unexpectedly against her chest. She gasped. A heavy necklace was clasping around her neck. Fiddling with its pendant, she noticed its odd shape.
"It's your number," the woman explained. "Since you can't wear it on your clothes, we have to display it some other way."
Her throat was constricting. It felt like the pendant weighed five pounds. Right as she said this, a pair of long and large earrings tugged at her lobes, tickling her neck, and a few bracelets clinked at her wrists.
"Your shoes are by the door," the woman said as a matter of response, and Hermione stepped robotically forward. Her uniform, boots and underwear were gone.
The shoes left for her were high heels.
"I'll break my ankles," she said, hating the quivers of her voice.
"They have an anti-tripping jinx on them."
Of course they had. She put on the shoes, which were more like sandals, and she gained three inches in height. Facing the door, she waited for the next instruction, although she knew none would come.
She kept fisting and unfisting her hands, unable to erase the moisture from them. Her breath came in more raggedly now, and she had to exhale through her mouth.
"For what it's worth," the woman's voice was bleak, "I do hope nobody picks you."
Hermione couldn't muster a response, and the door cracked open, blinding her with light. Yaxley was on the other side to greet her, his eyes flaring with excitement as soon as she stepped into the Great Hall.
Hermione was doing everything she could not to tip the entire tray of champagne flutes. She'd spent the last 30 minutes weaving through the crowd in the Great Hall, quietly serving sparkling drinks to the esteemed guests and game staff. The usual tables had disappeared, replaced by tall round cocktail tables covered with black tablecloths.
Golden strings of twinkling lights were hanging from the left wall to the right wall, slightly drooping to create a curve. There were pine wreaths on each wall, and the biggest Christmas tree she'd ever seen at the front of the room where the Professors' table used to be, decorated with lights and garlands of silver and gold. As ornaments, Hermione had to bring her nose inches from the tree to understand what they were.
Diamond numbers.
She hadn't noticed they went until what number, but when she spotted the 74, she guessed the numbers probably represented Numberland in general.
It made her sick.
Amongst the guests were witches and wizards that weren't part of the Empire, and she knew this because Draco had told her that the richest sponsors were attending the party every year in coloured, ceremonial robes. The Empire staff and residents were mostly wearing black. Only the female players were wearing shimmering clothes, like her. Not all of the players were attending the Christmas Eve party.
There were a lot of Chinese guests, too, and they all wore red robes etched with golden symbols. She knew that their presence meant something important for the Empire.
Hermione was glad Reine and Arthur weren't there. Oliver hadn't been that lucky.
Yaxley had sectioned a list of 11 players—6 women and 5 men—to be on display. This had been his choice of word. Their job was to serve hors d'oeuvres and champagne to the guests without uttering a single word. During the evening, guests and residents could offer galleons to spend the night with any of them.
On a table draped with an emerald tablecloth, there were 11 glass jars bearing their numbers, each increasingly filling with slips of parchment the more time clicked by. Guests and Empire staff—Trainers and Scavengers excluded—wrote the amount they were willing to pay to spend the night with the player. At the end of the night, the largest amount would be magically drawn and the winner would be gifted a Lust Potion. Something to give the player.
A silent auction.
When Draco had first explained the evening to her, she hadn't been able to find an answer. Their eyes had locked and her breath had caught in her throat. Yaxley hadn't selected the list yet, but Draco knew she'd be on it.
Of the six women on display, three were wearing gold, two silver—Cho and her—and one emerald. The male players were all wearing a white dress shirt, opened at the collar to reveal a V-shaped patch of chest. They also had eyeliner. Which oddly made their gaze pop even more. Their belt buckles were shaped like their numbers—it looked ridiculous. Oliver looked out of place in this attire, his hair a controlled mess, a few strands falling in just the right angles.
Hermione hadn't looked at herself in the mirror, except when she'd catch or reflection on a flute—and she noticed her red lips. She could guess the effect she had by observing how people reacted to her mere presence. Eyes were travelling shamelessly up and down her body, drinking in each ounce of her curves, lingering right under her necklace and up the sliver of smooth skin of her thigh.
Strangers' fingers skimmed on her body and brushed her hair. Each one an unwanted touch that made her skin crawl. People were toying with her, with them, like they were fiddling with the next piece of jewellery they wanted to buy for themselves.
She hadn't seen Draco or Theo, and she felt inexplicably alone. She'd noticed, however, that Keela was sitting in a dark corner, behind the Christmas tree. Which meant Draco must be somewhere close. She didn't know why, but Keela's presence reassured her a little.
She hadn't seen Voldemort either.
Every quarter of an hour, she glanced at the glass jar with her number on it. It was almost half full, and she had a little more parchment slips than the others. Number 6, the young man she'd wrestled with, was right behind. They'd been here only an hour. Four more to go until midnight.
Until the start of a dreadful night.
She truly didn't understand the hype. Why were people spending their Christmas Eve here, in Numberland, while they could be with their family? Her own parents were still locked in Macnair House. She'd give anything to run to the basement and smash her palms against the acrylic glass, hoping they'd recognize the shape of her hands, the hands they'd held to cross the streets countless times, the hands that plated cookies for Santa Claus.
After an hour, someone clinked on a glass to quiet the chatter. The humming in the room slowly died down and people gathered in the middle of the room. Hermione stayed close to Oliver, near the doors, trying to make herself smaller.
Yaxley was dressed in black garments and his hair were slicked back. He held a champagne flute in his hand, his wand in the other. "Thank you all so much for your presence!" His voice boomed in the Great Hall. "We are forever grateful to share this special occasion with estimable people like you. You have contributed greatly to make the Empire what it is today because you saw its potential!"
Applause filled the room in response.
"The least we can do is offer you one special evening." There were hoots and whistles, and shivers licked her spine. "But before we get there, let's welcome our Honourable Dark Lord, king of the Empire!"
The large doors opened, wood creaking, and Voldemort strode victoriously in the Great Hall, wearing a large and shimmering black cloak that trailed across the floor behind him. He looked like an angel of death, marching with purpose. Nagini was curled around his shoulders.
The crowd split in two to clear a path for him in reverence, and everyone instantly bowed, falling on their knees at his passage. Oliver dropped quickly and tugged her down.
Voldemort took Yaxley's place at the front of the room. "Please rise, faithful believers." The room obeyed. "Thank you for putting your faith in me. Thank you for trusting my will. Greater things are yet to come."
Another round of applause.
"I believe this is the right time to finally expose the next seven years of my plan," Voldemort continued, his reptile eyes skimming around the room. "Seven is meaningful to me. You know that the Empire came into existence thanks to a magical fog I've created." There were hums of acknowledgment. "It enabled us to place ourselves as the only thriving region of the United Kingdoms, and should I say, the entire world. Together, we rose like an Empire, dominating on the lowest forms of life—Muggles and Mudbloods."
To this, cheers erupted around Hermione.
"And we are not the only ones who believe in this kingdom. Our esteemed sponsor, China, will establish another Empire at Beijing. The construction of their Arena will begin at the end of this year's edition." Applause roared through the room in crescendo as he carried on his speech. "I will work tirelessly with our six other international sponsors to enlighten them. I have no doubt that I will be able to persuade them to pursue the great work we have started here. Each year, we plan to erect one international Empire until Numberland is not only an event, but a network, a dominion, a salvation!"
The room exploded with sounds, howls and shrieks and clinking glass. At the word 'network', Hermione thought of Xenophilius. He had said that word, along with 'franchise'. Numberland will franchise. He was right.
Had he foreseen this?
As Voldemort kept talking, attracting the attention of the hundred people or more before him, a cold hand gripped her wrist and jerked her away from the crowd. She almost screamed before she recognized the shape of his shoulders.
Draco was wearing his Death Eater apparel, along with the mask that covered his entire face. But she could discern the twinkle of his eyes. He placed a finger on his lips to indicate silence. She followed him out of the Great Hall, her heels clicking on the marble floor.
He didn't go far, just found the nearest alcove in a stone wall and pinned her against it, positioning himself in front of her. He was obscuring her view, or maybe shielding her from sight. She was fairly certain nobody could ever see her behind his tall and large figure.
Draco lifted his mask and rested it on the top of his head. He looked dashing and her breath caught in her throat with relief. She wondered if he'd been at the party all this time and hadn't spotted him because of his disguise. Which wasn't truly a disguise. She was just so used to seeing him wearing his navy Trainer uniform.
"We don't have much time," he said, bringing his face close to hers and lowering his voice. "Listen to me." His eyes fell to her mouth. "Fuck." Barely a whisper.
"I'm glad you're here." She hadn't meant to say it.
He blinked in surprise and a shadow crossed his eyes. "Granger, listen." His gaze briefly slipped from her face and dropped to her dress. His Adam's apple bobbed, and she fixated on it. "We have to do something now, otherwise it will be too suspicious if we act right before you're auctioned off."
Her guts froze with steel. "What can I do?" she whispered. "I'll do it."
His eyes fluttered shut for a few seconds. His body was so close to hers, all she had to do was lean and she'd be swept away.
"It would have helped if you didn't look like a fucking deity," he snarled through his teeth, before swearing again. "Listen. You'll have to act like an hysterical player. I'll start an argument with you. Pick a fight with me. You understand?"
She blinked, her eyes magnetised to his mouth. "Pick a fight?"
"Yes. Scream at me, swear as much as you can, throw stuff, make it look like you'll hurt yourself, do anything. Hysteria, threats, tears, violence. I'm talking mad from madhouse. I'll be mean, Granger, please don't take it personally."
Her nerves coiled painfully. "I'm not sure I—"
"I'm convinced Yaxley will send you off to the dungeons. Better there than to spend a night with one of them."
"Right." She felt numb to her core.
Draco raised his gloved hand in front of her face, stopping right before he could touch her. "It's… possible I'll have to hurt you." His voice had dropped even lower.
"It's okay."
"It's not. I just want to tell you that any pain you might feel from me, it won't be…" He sighed, and his features hardened. "You understand."
"Yes."
He slid his mask back on and left in a blink of an eye. She returned to the Great Hall at the same time as final cheers scattered across the room. She felt dazed, craving the heat of his proximity again. Guests started sipping champagne again, laughing and talking, as the Dark Lord spoke with Yaxley.
Oliver spotted her soon enough, looking worried. "Where were you?"
She shook her head to signify she couldn't say a word about it, but he simply looked even more confused. Examining the front of the room, she watched Voldemort exit in a billowing whirl of black smoke. The king already gone.
Hysteria. The only word bouncing around her head was hysteria. She was searching the crowd for him, waiting for the scene to start but couldn't spot him. A lot of Death Eaters were dressed the same. More than twenty wore their masks.
Yaxley signalled them to start serving drinks again. Hermione's legs led her to the table where their silver trays were. Her nape was coated with sweat. She grabbed her tray with shaky hands and hoisted it up, bending her elbow.
She started weaving through the crowd again, stopping at each little cluster of wizards and witches. Letting them purr unspeakable things at her, letting their hands roam over her bare back.
Her salvation arrived in the form of a massive figure smashing into her tray just as she was turning to serve another group. The clatter was thunderous, glass exploding in thousands of sparkling fragments, champagne spilling over the man she had just bumped into. Around her, people stepped back to avoid the puddle.
"You brainless, clumsy bint!" Draco's voice was loud and clear, cutting through the crowd. Champagne had spilled all over his chest, dripping from his elbows. He had his mask on but she recognized his voice. She could place it anywhere.
It was now or never.
Scene.
She started cackling, not recognizing the sound of her own broken voice. "You were in my fucking way!" she barked, before turning to the general crowd. "In fact, you're ALL in my way!" She took a few steps forward, pointing directly at Draco, and the glass crunched under her heels. "I really wish it was YOU in the Arena! YOU put me there!" She swivelled around to point at the crowd in a circular motion.
The room had fallen silent. She wondered if her performance would cost her her life. But then she remembered how important it was that she participates in the games.
"And EACH one of you!" she screamed, feeling tears pooling in her eyes. "Each one of you deserve to rot in here, with a fucking number on your back!" She bent to gather broken pieces of glass, ignoring the slices in her hands, and started throwing them, even if they shielded their face with their arms. "You all think that you're faithful persons and believers? Betting on human beings? Like we're some kind of animals, performing in blood sports, for YOUR. FUCKING. ENTERTAINMENT?"
People started to hiss and Draco stepped toward her menacingly and grabbed a fistful of her hair. "You can't speak to them this way, you fucking bitch."
His grip hurt—it really did. She met Oliver's eyes in the crowd. He looked horrified and confused. She really hoped he wouldn't spend the night with anybody, although his glass jar was filled with slips.
Yaxley had finally managed to weave himself through the crowd and arrived at the commotion. He looked incredibly angry, his eyes flaring on her.
"I'm sorry, sir," Draco apologized, still clutching her hair.
"I'm not fucking sorry!" She yelled back, trying to kick him from behind. She recognized the move when he smashed his booth right behind her knee, and she dropped down. Both of her knees crashed on the ground, and countless shards of glass pierced her flesh through her dress. She roared with pain and Draco's grip loosened slightly. In fact, his thumb gently stroked the back of her hair.
"Get your player under control," Yaxley warned, eyes darkening on Draco.
Hermione figured the scene wasn't over yet. It wasn't over until someone was bringing her to the dungeons. She wouldn't quit until she was behind bars and safe from any twisted person that would win her. Her knees were throbbing with a sharp pain, bathing in their own little pools of blood and champagne. It felt like a thousand needles were puncturing her skin.
Better to have dozens of gashes in her knees than a stranger inside of her.
"YOU wish you had control over me!" she screamed at Yaxley, and for good show, she started laughing. Then she channelled her pain to cry. She laughed again until she wasn't sure if the tremors in her chest were sobs or laughter. "I wish I could see you out there in the Quidditch field, running in circle like a fucking CIRCUS MOUSE!" She spat at his feet.
Yaxley smacked her right in the face and her brain forgot how to think for a second, ears ringing.
Draco growled with anger—not at her, she knew—, and pulled at her hair until her back arched and her face was facing the ceiling. Now she could see his eyes through the mask.
They were incredibly sad.
The crowd looked uncomfortable, muttering amongst themselves.
"I hate every fucking one of you." Her eyes gleamed with fury, her chest was heaving. She tried to get back on her feet. "If one of you even TOUCHES ME, I swear to Merlin I'll gouge your eyes out!" She squirmed, trying to break free. "Let me go, you fucking Death Eater!"
"Draco." Yaxley narrowed his eyes at him. "The dungeons."
She tried to wriggle free, then faked panic. "The dungeons? No! No, don't bring me back there!"
Yaxley scowled. "Now, Draco."
"Yes, sir."
"NO!"
The next second, she was dragged by her hair out of the Great Hall, and she kept screaming until her voice was hoarse. Eventually, Draco released his grip slightly to let her manage to get back on her feet. They started down the hallway, passing in front of the alcove they had just shared fifteen minutes ago.
She kept screaming insults and godless things at him because she knew she was still within earshot. He released her hair but grabbed her by the arm, walking them at a brisk pace towards the dungeons. She could hear his quick short breaths.
She yelled. She attempted to escape—without success.
All the way down to the dungeons.
Only then, when they were wrapped in the dim light, did she fall silent. Her brain felt mushy, and pain was throbbing in both of her knees, her palms, her scalp and right behind her eyes. Her throat was dry and scratchy like sandpaper. She didn't know if there were other people in the dungeons.
"Homenum Revelio," Draco muttered. Nothing.
He tugged her toward the farthest cell, and the glow of lanterns danced on the stone walls. He casted a silencing spell before nudging her inside.
However, as soon as she was behind the bars, he rushed to her. She was about to recoil, forgetting the scene was over, but he folded his arms around her.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he mumbled, his face nestled in the crook of her neck. Both of his arms had snaked around her shaking body, one around her shoulders, the other around her waist, and he cradled her.
In shock, she couldn't move, her hands hovering in mid-air. It occurred to her that she hadn't been hugged in months.
The last ten minutes caught up with her and collapsed like a brick wall on top of her.
"Sit," he whispered, peeling himself off her. "You need to sit, please." He gently guided her until her back was against the wall, then she let herself slide to the floor. As soon as she was down, he examined her knees and winced.
"I'm really sorry, Granger. I've hurt you."
She shook her head and wiped a tear from her face. "It's not your fault." Her voice sounded awful. She focused on any ounce of self-control she had to not cry of pain.
His features hardened like steel as his hands worked the straps of her shoes to untie them. "It is." He softly removed both of them, careful not to pull too hard. His hand lingered on her ankle, and she felt her skin burn under his touch.
"There was no other way," she answered.
He removed his hand and drew out his wand.
"Maybe there was. I just couldn't think of anything better sooner." He guided his wand right above her knees, then started tracing circles. He kept his gaze focused as he started magically pulling at the glass shards still wedged in her flesh. She listened to their clink as they fell on the stone one by one.
The dungeons were eerily quiet.
"You did good out there," he offered faintly. Clink. "You were believable."
"There weren't many lies to invent…"
He glanced at her and she blinked her stare away. "I just didn't mean what I said about you." It was important she clarified this. "Everything else was true."
He nodded and resumed his care. Clink. The silence lingered for a few more clinks—she counted seven—before he lowered his wand.
"They'll be expecting me back soon," he said. "And I can't do anything more for your knees. They can't see that you've been healed."
She nodded, because she understood, but her throat constricted.
He once again laid his hand on her ankle to draw her stare back to him. "Granger," he murmured. "I'll come back, I promise. With a pain potion."
She hated the sound of that word on his lips. Promise. She hated the surge of emotion, the hope it made her feel. She shook her head and wiped another tear. "I'll be fine. Don't risk it."
He softly squeezed her ankle. "You can't argue on this."
"You have to go."
His lips thinned and he scooted closer. If he wanted to, he could extend his arm and stroke her cheek. Maybe she wished he did. She didn't know why.
He took her hand, sending tiny jolts along her the entire line of her arm, then her spine. When he brought his lips down on her knuckles, she shivered. He lingered for a second, his lips like velvet, and she was convinced he was smelling her skin when his eyes flicked back to hers.
"You really do look glorious, Granger. Even more so with those filthy words."
Then he was out of her cell in a swish of his cloak, the gate clicking shut behind him.
