RISE
Hermione (Present)
"Pita!" Hermione's scream tore through the suffocating silence of the room, her eyes flying open as she bolted upright in the unfamiliar bed. Panic clawed at her throat, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She scrambled across the plush mattress, her fingers desperately searching for the familiar warmth of Pita's body.
Empty.
Dread washed over her, icy and relentless, as the fragmented memories of the previous day slammed back into focus. Pita wasn't here. She was alone, back at the dilapidated cottage, likely vulnerable and terrified. A desperate hope flickered within her – maybe Maggie had stopped by for dinner and found Hermione gone. Maybe she'd taken Pita in, sensing the urgency, promising her safety until Hermione returned.
Hermione raked her fingers through her tangled hair, the unfamiliar silk of the nightgown rustling against her skin as she scrambled out of the bed. With a sharp snap of her fingers, the candles scattered around the room ignited.
The room was overwhelmingly grand. The four poster bed, draped in luxurious velvet and overflowing with pillows, dominated the center of the space. Ornate furniture, polished to a blinding sheen, filled every corner, while tapestries depicting unfamiliar landscapes adorned the walls.
Three large windows, their panes shimmering with an unseen enchantment, offered a glimpse of the world outside. Hermione rushed towards them, her fingers frantically pulling at the latches, but they wouldn't budge. Desperate, she seized a porcelain vase from a nearby table and hurled it with all her might at the glass. It bounced harmlessly off the surface, shattering into a thousand pieces on the polished floor. She tried to summon wandless magic to break through, but it was useless against the enchantments woven into the castle's very foundation.
She raced to the heavy wooden door and yanked at the handle, but it was useless. The door remained stubbornly sealed. Her gaze dropped to her attire – a silken blue shift that fell to her knees, its fabric soft against her skin. Relief washed over her as she realized she was still wearing her undergarments. The fragmented memories of the previous day returned, swirling and hazy like smoke. Prince Draco, his intrigued smirk, and the leering faces of his cronies. She had been incapacitated, vulnerable, at their mercy. A shiver ran down her spine. She knew firsthand the depths of depravity men were capable of.
The first rays of dawn were beginning to paint the horizon with hues of gold and crimson. Hermione sank into a plush armchair, the velvet cushions engulfing her like quicksand. Escape. She had to escape. But how? Every plan she conjured seemed to crumble into dust, each path leading to a dead end. Even if she managed to break free from this cage, the royal family now knew her identity.
She needed a different strategy. She had to convince the prince, somehow, that she was an unsuitable match. That she was unworthy of his attention, undeserving of a place in this suffocating world of wealth and privilege.
Frustration gnawed at her. She wanted to lash out, to smash something, to break free from the suffocating helplessness that threatened to consume her. But her knuckles were still raw and tender from a recent fracture she had obtained in the ring.
Rising from the chair, she grabbed a pillow from the bed and buried her face in it, screaming until her throat was raw. She had to get back to Pita. Today. Before someone hurt her. Before she succumbed to the cold, to the gnawing hunger that had haunted their lives for so long.
It was autumn, the leaves already turning brittle and brown, the nights growing longer and colder. The image of Pita, curled up alone in their drafty cottage, shivering in the darkness, filled her with a wave of nausea. She couldn't bear the thought of her suffering, of her innocent eyes filled with fear and loneliness.
She had to get back to her. She had to.
Hours crawled by as Hermione watched the sun rise, casting its golden rays across the sprawling palace grounds. From her window, she could see meticulously manicured gardens, sparkling fountains, and even a Quidditch pitch in the distance. Despite her anger, she couldn't deny the beauty of it all, the sheer artistry of the landscape.
The silence was finally broken by the muffled murmur of voices from beyond the door. Hermione rose, her bare feet sinking into the plush rug, and crept towards the heavy oak door. Pressing her ear against the cool wood, she strained to decipher the hushed words.
"What are you on about, Ronald? Just stand aside," a female voice hissed, laced with impatience.
"Ginny, she's dangerous! She broke the prince's nose!" a man's voice whispered back, his tone rising in alarm.
"And he probably deserved it, now MOVE!" the woman retorted. "I have been assigned as her sponsor. There's no getting around it... I have to meet her... I don't have a choice in the matter."
"Do you have your wand?" the man finally relented after a tense pause.
"Of course I do, are you daft?" the woman scoffed.
Hermione heard a resigned sigh and the shuffling of feet before a distinct click signaled the unlocking of the door. She darted back to the armchair, feigning nonchalance as the door creaked open.
A young witch with a fiery mane of red hair stepped into the room, her expression a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. She closed the door softly behind her and turned to face Hermione, her gaze sweeping over the room.
She was undeniably pretty, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and bright, intelligent eyes that seemed to assess Hermione with a surprising intensity. She wore a simple white blouse and brown trousers, her wand secured in a holster attached to her narrow hip. A set of blue robes, casually slung over her shoulders, completed the ensemble.
"Hello, Hermione," she began, her voice surprisingly gentle despite the wary distance she maintained. Smart witch , Hermione thought.
"My name is Ginny, Ginny Weasley," she continued, her voice carrying a bit of uncertainty.
Weasley... the soldier who had escorted her to the examination room shared the same surname.
Hermione remained silent, her gaze fixed on the young witch, a mixture of suspicion and curiosity swirling within her.
"I suppose I should explain why I am here..." Ginny continued, taking a tentative step closer. "Now, I have been informed that you do not wish to be here, and to be honest, I don't blame you. But I have been assigned as your sponsor, your guide, if you will. I am to teach you the ways of pure blood society and help you navigate the tasks ahead."
Hermione sighed, her gaze drifting towards the window. Ginny had closed the distance now, her wand held loosely in her hand. With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a chair, positioning it opposite Hermione before gracefully taking a seat.
A heavy silence settled between them, Hermione stubbornly refusing to break it. Ginny, unfazed, retrieved a book from a nearby shelf and began to read, a subtle power play designed to draw Hermione out.
"Rubbish," Ginny scoffed after a few minutes, returning the book to the shelf and selecting another before resuming her seat.
Time stretched on, amplifying Hermione's growing unease. Every wasted minute was a minute further away from Pita.
"I won't be staying long," Hermione finally declared, her voice firm.
Ginny looked up from her book, her expression unreadable.
"Hmmm, is that so? I've heard rumors that the prince is quite taken with you," she remarked, her eyes flickering back to the pages before her.
Hermione scoffed. That was a situation she needed to rectify immediately.
"How well do you know the prince?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"Well enough," Ginny replied, her attention still on the book.
"Why were you chosen to be my... sponsor?"
Ginny closed the book with a snap, levitating it back to the vanity table.
"Have you heard of the Sacred 28?" she inquired, finally meeting Hermione's gaze.
"No," Hermione lied. Of course, she had.
"Well, the families from the Sacred 28 often find themselves with a high level of responsibility in the Kingdom. And our wise king has decided to assign each witch participating in the selection process to be paired with a member of each family."
Hermione considered her response, detecting a subtle hint of animosity in Ginny's voice when she mentioned the king. Perhaps this was something she could exploit.
"How has life been for you, here at the palace?" she asked.
"Well, I don't live here at the palace, but I do live in the first ring, so not too far off. I can easily apparate the distance to my home."
"First ring?" Hermione questioned.
"The Kingdom is split into seven rings. The first ring is the closest to the castle, and the seventh is closest to the barrier wall. I believe you have come from the seventh ring?"
Hermione mentally mapped out the kingdom. It made sense. The wall was only a few miles walk from her village. No matter which direction she walked, as long as she was headed away from the castle, she would eventually reach the shimmering purple shield that stretched into the sky. She had tried to dig under it once, but it seemed to extend to the earth's very core.
"Yes, I believe I am," she confirmed. “Where did the shield come from?” No one in the seventh ring knew for sure.
"Lucius created it, to keep us trapped here. He erected the shield to ensure our isolation, our absolute dependence on his whims."
Hermione pressed for more. "But the Snatchers," she'd argued, her brow furrowed in thought, "they must cross into the Muggle world to steal children... Muggleborns. How do they pass?"
"There's a way," Ginny admitted, "but it’s kept very quiet.”
Hermione nodded.
"How has life been for you? In the seventh ring?" Ginny pressed, her eyes searching Hermione's.
"Just peachy, thank you for asking," Hermione replied with a sarcastic bite.
Ginny's eyes shimmered with an unidentifiable emotion. Was it pity?
"Don't pity me," Hermione snapped. "I would prefer to be there than here, in case that sentiment wasn't already obvious."
"Let me be frank with you, Hermione," Ginny whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially. "King Lucius has already put a target on your back. He doesn't want you here. I don't think it will be very hard for you to fail at this point."
Hope bloomed in Hermione's chest, and for some reason, she found herself trusting the stranger before her.
Ginny continued, "I want to help you. I don't want you to be a prisoner here. It's not safe here for someone like you."
Ginny's eyes scanned Hermione's face, taking in the fading cuts and bruises that marred her skin.
She raised her wand in Hermione's direction, and Hermione flinched involuntarily.
"I am going to run a diagnostic spell, is that alright with you?" Ginny asked softly.
Hermione nodded, and Ginny muttered an unfamiliar incantation beneath her breath. Hermione watched as Ginny analyzed the results, a series of shimmering symbols and purple lettering that seemed to float above her head.
"Merlin..." Ginny whispered, her eyes widening in alarm. "How many bones have you broken in your life?"
"I couldn't say," Hermione answered honestly.
"You have three cracked ribs... may I heal them? Your face as well?" Ginny asked gently.
Hermione nodded again, and Ginny traced a delicate pattern in the air with her wand. Warmth bloomed in Hermione's chest, and she could almost feel her ribs knitting back together. She sighed, a deep breath of relief, feeling like she could breathe freely for the first time in months. Ginny then directed her wand towards Hermione's face, and she felt the same tingling sensation caress her bruised eye and split lip.
Hermione glanced at her reflection in a nearby mirror. Her face was clear, the swelling and discoloration gone. The color had returned to her cheeks, she hadn't seen her face without some sort of bruising or cuts for years.
"Thank you," she whispered..
"You are welcome," Ginny replied with a nod.
"Now, tonight you will be summoned to dinner with the other girls. The sponsors will not be joining tonight. It will just be you and the royal family. It's the first task. As simple as it may seem, you will be judged on your etiquette, on your ability to blend in with nobility. I suggest you use the opportunity to showcase your...refined table manners," Ginny said, rising from her chair.
She walked towards the door, pausing just before exiting.
"Oh, and wear something... nice ," Ginny added with a wink. "If you need me, just tell my brother. He's the dopey soldier standing sentinel at your door."
She closed the door behind her, leaving Hermione alone with her swirling thoughts. Why did this witch want to help her? What did she have to gain? Hermione wasn't used to people doing things without expecting something in return, but she couldn't think of a motive. Her mind raced for the next few hours, trying to decipher the strange encounter and prepare for the daunting task ahead.
She paced restlessly, the plush carpet muffling her footsteps, her thoughts scattered. She tried to lose herself in a book, but the words swam before her eyes, meaningless and blurry. Frustration mounting, she flung the book across the room, its pages fluttering as it collided with the wall.
Desperate for a distraction, she turned her attention to the ensuite bathroom. It was a marvel of unfamiliar fixtures and baffling contraptions. A claw footed bathtub stood proudly in one corner, but it was the wall of gleaming tiles that truly captivated her attention. Large silver objects, resembling spouts of some kind, protruded from the wall, each with a gleaming knob. She twisted one of the knobs, and a jet of water erupted from the spout, showering her in warmth.
She gasped, her silk shift clinging to her skin as the water cascaded over her. It was...hot. The sensation was utterly foreign, a luxury she had never experienced before. As she stood beneath the soothing spray, a wave of relaxation washed over her, easing some of the tension that had been coiling within her all day.
Sinking down onto the tiled floor, she allowed the water to wash over her, marveling at the simple pleasure of it. On a nearby ledge, she spotted an array of jars filled with colorful substances. Opening one, she inhaled the delicate fragrance of lavender. Soap, she realized, another unfamiliar luxury. She quickly decided against using it, determined to retain the grime and scent of the seventh ring.
Stepping out of the water, she peeled off the soaked nightgown and surveyed her reflection in the ornate mirror. Her hair was plastered to her head, still tangled and matted despite the impromptu wash. She spotted a comb and other strange contraptions on the counter but quickly dismissed them. She wouldn't be touching those either. Snatching a fluffy towel from a nearby wicker chair, she attacked her hair with ferocious vigor, rubbing it until it was even more tangled and unruly than before.
The reflection staring back at her was wild, almost barbaric. Perfect .
Emerging from the bathroom, she made her way to the wardrobe near the fireplace. It was a treasure trove of exquisite gowns, each more beautiful than the last. She ran her fingers over the luxurious fabrics, marveling at their softness and intricate embroidery. It was a pity she wouldn't be wearing any of them. They had likely incinerated the clothes she had arrived in, so she needed to find something equally unsuitable to wear to dinner. She would have to get creative.
Rummaging through the drawers, she unearthed a black silk nightgown. It was scandalously short and alarmingly sheer. If she couldn't look like she lived in the Forbidden Forest, she would aim for a mother's worst nightmare instead. Pulling the nightgown over her head, she surveyed the effect in the mirror. It barely reached her mid-thigh.
Taking a seat at the vanity, she began exploring the contents of the drawers. She found an array of makeup, something she had never used before. But she had seen how the women at Madame Mandrake's, the village brothel, applied it.
Puckering her lips, she applied a thick layer of crimson lipstick, then smudged it haphazardly with the back of her hand. She eyed the rest of the makeup but decided against further experimentation.
Standing before the mirror, she felt a surge of satisfaction. Her dark, curly hair, now dry but still wild, cascaded down her back. It had dried neater than she had anticipated, so she flipped her head upside down and ruffled it vigorously until it resembled a bird's nest. If she squinted, she could just make out the outline of her nipples and the waistband of her knickers through the thin fabric of the nightgown. She briefly cursed herself for allowing Ginny to heal her bruises and cuts – they would have added a nice tough to her ensemble. But this would have to do.
The thin silk of the nightgown did little to conceal the scars etched across her skin. Deep, faded white lines criss crossed her back, the result of countless lashings endured in the village square. Good, she thought, a flicker of defiance igniting within her. Let them see.
Now, all she had to do was wait for her summons.
A resounding "Pop!" shattered the tense silence of the room, and Hermione whirled around to find a small elf materializing before her. She had never seen one in person before, and she was struck by how tiny he was, his large eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror.
"Miss Hermione, what an honor to... AHHHHHH!" The elf's voice abruptly transitioned into a high pitched shriek, his hands flying to his mouth as if to physically contain the sound.
"Miss Hermione! That attire is not suitable for dinner! You must change right away! OH NO OH NO OH NO, Dobby is going to be punished for this!"
The elf was practically vibrating with anxiety, his words tumbling over each other in panic. Hermione almost felt sympathy for the creature, but he was right. They were going to be late. She needed to make an entrance.
"Hello!" she said brightly, extending a hand towards the trembling elf. "It's nice to meet you..." she trailed off, prompting him to introduce himself.
"Oh, how terribly rude of me, my name is Dobby. Please, miss, allow me to help you change," Dobby squeaked, scurrying towards the wardrobe.
"That won't be necessary, Dobby. I just need to use the loo, and then we will be off," Hermione assured him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
The elf shifted from foot to foot, nibbling at his nails as she disappeared into the bathroom. She lingered there for a good fifteen minutes, listening to Dobby's frantic pacing outside the door. Finally, she emerged, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips.
"Okay, I am ready," she announced, her voice laced with amusement.
"Are you, miss? Wouldn't you like to..." Dobby began, his voice trembling with apprehension.
"Let's go, Dobby," Hermione interrupted firmly, striding barefoot towards the door.
Dobby led her through the corridors of the palace. The portraits lining the walls seemed to follow her with their eyes, their painted lips curling into sneers of disapproval. They walked for what felt like an eternity before finally arriving at a set of large double doors.
"Right through here, Miss Hermione," Dobby announced, his voice barely a whisper as he magically flung open the doors.
Hermione stepped out onto a raised platform, her chin held high, her gaze fixed on the scene before her. A grand staircase, its steps carpeted in crimson velvet, descended into a vast dining hall. Chandeliers, glittering with a thousand crystals, cast a dazzling light over the opulent room.
A man in servant's attire stood beside the door, his voice ringing out with practiced formality as he announced her arrival.
"Hermione Granger, Blood status: Mudblood, Seventh ring, age 18."
A wave of gasps and the clatter of dropped silverware rippled through the room as Hermione began her descent. The silence that followed was so profound that she could have heard a pin drop. And she was pretty sure she did hear a wand clatter to the floor.
The long, elaborately carved dining table was filled with delicacies, its surface gleaming under the candlelight. Thirty or more people were seated around it, their faces a mixture of curiosity, disdain, and outright hostility. Hermione avoided direct eye contact, maintaining an air of aloof indifference as a soldier pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit at the end of the table.
The stage was set and the first act of her performance was about to begin.
The feast laid out before her was a sight to behold. Aromas of roasted meats, exotic spices, and sweet pastries mingled in the air, creating an intoxicating combination of scents that made her stomach rumble with anticipation. Her eyes widened with excitement. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.
Without ceremony, she grabbed her dish and began piling it high with food. She heaped on generous portions of everything, creating a culinary mountain that threatened to topple over. Taking her seat, she tied a napkin around her neck and dug in.
"Miss Hermione Granger, how lovely of you to join us," a deep voice boomed from the opposite end of the table, cutting through the silence.
Hermione finally lifted her gaze, meeting the steely gray eyes of King Lucius Malfoy. His expression was one of undisguised revulsion, his lips curled into a sneer, his brow furrowed in displeasure. He bore a striking resemblance to Draco – the same platinum blond hair, the same sharp features – but his eyes were colder, harder.
She glanced around the table, taking in the scene. Twenty-eight girls, all impeccably dressed, stared back at her with shock. Their plates remained untouched, their appetites seemingly forgotten.
Hermione's gaze flickered back to the king, who continued to glare at her. His eyes, like chips of ice, seemed to bore into her. To his left sat a regal woman, her blonde hair swept up in an elaborate style, her expression a mask of cool detachment. Queen Narcissa, Hermione assumed, her demeanor radiating an aloofness that mirrored her husband's.
And then there was Draco. Seated to the king's right, he appeared oddly detached from the unfolding drama. One hand rested lazily over his mouth, his silver eyes averted, fixed on some distant point to his right. But Hermione could have sworn she saw the corners of his lips twitching upwards beneath his hand. He seemed to be fighting back a smile.
Hermione, unfazed, scooped a massive bite of food into her mouth before responding.
"My king... thank you so much for your kind hospitality." she mumbled through a mouthful of roasted pheasant.
A fresh wave of gasps rippled through the room, but Hermione remained focused on her plate. The food was exquisite, and she had to suppress a moan of pure delight as she continued to shovel it into her mouth. She barely paused for breath, her eyes never leaving her plate as she tore into a turkey leg, its juices dripping down her chin.
Without looking up, she raised her left hand, her index finger twitching slightly as she summoned a nearby bottle of wine. The cork flew off with a satisfying pop, and she tilted the bottle back, taking a long, greedy gulp.
"This one might need to be mine," she declared, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I think I left a little turkey in there."
Whispers erupted around the table.
"Was that wandless, non-verbal magic?"
"How did she do that?"
"Did you see that?"
Slowly, Hermione raised her eyes, taking in the awestruck faces of the other girls. When her gaze finally landed on the king, she noticed a shift in his demeanor. The disgust had been replaced by something else, something like to intrigue.
"Miss Granger, where did you learn wandless magic?" King Lucius's voice boomed through the hall, demanding an answer.
Hermione remained silent, taking another long swig of wine. She felt a pleasant warmth spreading through her. She attempted a belch, but sadly one wouldn't come.
"Your king asked you a question," the brunette witch to her left hissed, her voice laced with disapproval.
Hermione paused, considering her response. She hadn't really "learned" wandless magic. It was something that had always come naturally to her, an innate ability she had honed through necessity rather than formal training. It had impressed those in the slums, but she hadn't expected it to have the same effect here.
Her eyes darted to Draco. His silver gaze was locked on hers, his expression unreadable, a flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.
She shrugged and took another gulp of wine.
The king cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the hushed hall, silencing the lingering whispers. "As I was saying," he began, "the following weeks here at the palace will involve a series of trials, each one designed to test your intelligence, magical capabilities, and overall character."
His gaze swept across the assembled witches, lingering for a moment on Hermione, a silent threat hanging in the air. "These trials," he continued, "will be rigorous, demanding not only raw power but also grace, cunning, and an understanding of the delicate intricacies of pure blood society."
He paused, allowing his words to sink in, savoring the apprehension that rippled through the room. "Witches will be narrowed down and dismissed throughout the coming weeks," he explained, his voice laced with a hint of cruel amusement. "If you are eliminated," he added, his eyes locking with Hermione's, "you will be returned to your... respective villages."
She watched as some of the witches around her deflated.
"Let us raise our glasses," he continued, his voice ringing through the hall, cutting through the lingering tension. He lifted his own goblet, the ruby wine swirling within the crystal.
Around the table the witches raised their glasses. Draco, his face still flushed with amusement, merely lifted his whiskey glass in a mocking salute, while Narcissa remained motionless, her gaze fixed on some distant point.
Hermione, never one to be outdone, raised her wine bottle, taking a long, defiant swig as the others took delicate sips from their goblets.
"Now," the king declared, his voice laced with a chilling authority, "let the first trial begin."
Whispers of confusion rippled through the grand hall, the witches exchanging bewildered glances. Hermione, pleasantly warmed by the wine, savored a delicate pastry, the sweet custard a delightful contrast to the savory feast she had just devoured.
"The wine has been laced with Veritaserum," King Lucius announced, his voice cutting through the murmuring like a knife. "Can anyone tell me what that is?" He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on the wide eyed faces of the young witches.
Hermione, though her mind was pleasantly fuzzy, recognized the name. Veritaserum. The truth serum. She knew its reputation, its potency, but she couldn't find it within herself to care.
"It's a truth serum, Your Majesty," a red haired girl near the king piped up, her voice trembling slightly. "Odorless, colorless, tasteless... and potent. If you try to lie or withhold the truth, you will experience intense pain."
"Very good, Millie," Lucius purred, and the girl blushed, her cheeks flushing crimson.
"Now then," Lucius continued, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Who would like to go first?" He gestured towards a raised dais at the far end of the hall. A single chair, upholstered in burgundy velvet, sat in the center, bathed in the warm glow of the chandeliers.
Silence met his question. No one dared volunteer.
"Miss Granger," Lucius called out, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. "How about you?" It wasn't a request.
"I'd prefer to finish my dessert," Hermione mumbled, her fork hovering over a particularly tempting tartlet.
Lucius merely raised an eyebrow, and with a flick of his wand, the chair beneath her vanished. Had her reflexes not been honed by years of dodging blows and evading danger, she would have crashed to the floor. As it was, she managed to catch herself, a surge of adrenaline sharpening her senses.
With a nonchalant shrug, she plucked the napkin from her neck, tossing it onto the table before making her way towards the dais, bottle of wine in hand. Each step was deliberate, her chin held high, her gaze fixed on the velvet chair that awaited her.
The dais was surprisingly large, more akin to a stage than a simple platform. As she settled into the chair, she found herself facing the entire room, the royal family now turned in their seats, their eyes fixed on her with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation. Her nightgown had ridden up her thighs and she didn’t move to fix it.
Lucius cleared his throat, the sound amplified in the hushed hall. "We will start easy," he began, his voice deceptively gentle. "What is your name?"
"Hermione Granger," she responded without hesitation.
"How old are you?" Lucius continued, his eyes boring into hers.
"Eighteen," she replied, her voice steady.
"When is your birthday?"
"No idea," she admitted with a shrug. She had never celebrated a birthday.
She glanced at Draco, who was watching her intently, his silver eyes gleaming. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his expression unreadable.
Lucius paused, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before he pressed on.
"Are you a member of the Order of the Phoenix?"
"I don't even know what that is," Hermione replied truthfully. The name meant nothing to her.
"How many sexual partners have you had?" Lucius asked, his voice devoid of inflection.
She hesitated. She had never been under the influence of Veritaserum before. Could she sidestep the question? Could she manipulate her words in a way that was technically true, but still a lie?
"I want to say..." she began, feigning a thoughtful expression. "Sixteen?"
A collective gasp echoed through the hall, the other witches staring at her with a mixture of shock and disgust. It was true, she wanted to say sixteen. She wanted them to believe she was far from a virgin bride. But the reality was far different. She had only had two consensual sexual partners.
Lucius sputtered, momentarily thrown off balance by her unexpected response. He seemed to have forgotten his next question.
"What can I say?" Hermione continued, her voice laced with a playful nonchalance. "Whiskey makes me horribly horny." Which was also true.
A bark of laughter erupted from Draco, shattering the stunned silence. She met his gaze. He was thoroughly amused, his face lit up with a genuine smile, his silver eyes sparkling.
Lucius, with an irritated sigh, smoothed back his platinum hair and regained his composure. "I noticed you have scars on your back," he observed, his voice laced with a thinly veiled contempt. "What are those from?"
"Lashings," Hermione replied evenly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "For prior crimes."
"What crimes were those?" Lucius pressed, his eyes narrowing.
"Well, the first one," Hermione began, her voice taking on a distant quality as the memory unfolded in her mind, "the one that left the deepest scars, I believe, was for stealing bread. I was five."
The image of that day flashed before her eyes: the gnawing hunger that had driven her to desperation, the frantic snatch of the bread from the baker's stall, the brutal grip of the guards, the searing pain of the whip against her young skin. Twenty lashes, each one a searing agony that had left her raw and bleeding. She had nearly died. But Maggie had found her, tending to her wounds, nursing her back to health with a fierce tenderness that Hermione had never known before.
Her gaze swept across the faces of the other girls, and she saw a flicker of recognition in their eyes. If they hadn't endured a lashing themselves, they had surely witnessed its brutality, felt its sting through the suffering of loved ones.
The prince, who had been watching her with such intensity moments before, now averted his gaze, his eyes fixed on the ground. Even the queen, her face a mask of composure, seemed to betray a hint of sadness in the depths of her eyes.
Lucius, however, remained unaffected. His expression was cold, his voice devoid of empathy as he continued his interrogation.
"What is your trade in the seventh ring?" he inquired.
"My trade?" Hermione echoed, momentarily thrown by the unfamiliar term.
"What do you do for work?" Lucius clarified, his impatience evident. "How do you survive?"
"I fight," Hermione stated simply. "For money, in the underground rings. I hunt for food in the forest, and I make most of my own clothing."
Lucius scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. "And is there much money in your... profession?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"If you're good at it," she replied, her voice unwavering, "yes."
Lucius, with a dismissive flick of his wrist and a bored sigh, gestured for Hermione to step aside. "Please stand to the side of the stage, Miss Granger."
Hermione, still clutching the wine bottle, sauntered towards the edge of the dais, her bare feet silent on the polished wood. She watched as Lucius beckoned the next witch forward. The brunette, her face pale, trembled as she took her seat, her eyes darting nervously around the room. Lucius, however, seemed oblivious to her distress, his attention fixed solely on the task at hand.
"What's your name?" he asked, his voice devoid of warmth.
"El-Elara Everleigh," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen," she replied, her voice trembling.
"Are you a member of the Order of the Phoenix?"
A heavy silence fell over the room. Elara's eyes welled with tears, her lips parting in a silent plea. She tried to speak, but no sound came. Hermione watched in horror as the girl's small frame began to shake violently, her face contorted in pain.
"Elara," Lucius's voice rang out, sharp and cold. "Resisting is futile and will only cause you more pain."
Elara writhed in the chair, her eyes squeezed shut, her body wracked with agony. Finally, a tortured scream tore from her throat. "YES!"
Lucius rose from his seat, his movements deliberate as he ascended the dais. Elara, tears streaming down her face, cowered before him as he loomed over her. He crouched down, his face inches from hers, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"Filthy, half-blood rat," he spat, his voice dripping with venom.
He yanked her from the chair, sending her sprawling onto the floor. With a vicious kick, he sent the chair flying off the dais, its velvet upholstery ripping as it crashed to the ground. He drew his wand, its tip glowing menacingly as he began to circle the girl.
Hermione's blood ran cold. She had no idea what Lucius planned to do, what horrors awaited Elara, but the crazed glint in his eyes, the sheer malice etched on his face, filled her with dread.
Lucius's face contorted with a horrifying blend of rage and glee. "CRUCIO!" he yelled, the word ripped from his throat in a raw, unhinged scream.
The girl was hurled to her back on ground, her body contorting and gasping under the relentless onslaught of the spell. She writhed in agony, her screams echoing through the hall as if she were being consumed by flames. Lucius continued his assault for what felt like eternity. The witch continued to writhe and scream, coming in and out of consciousness. Sweat mingled with blood, streaming down her face from her nose and the corners of his mouth.
The wine bottle slipped from Hermione's numb fingers, exploding on the ground, the sharp sound cutting through her frozen terror. Without conscious thought, she was moving towards the girl.
She felt a prickle deep within her skull, morphing into a feather light touch that caressed the edges of her consciousness. She halted her in her tracks. A man's voice, resonant and commanding, echoed within her mind. "Don't," it warned, "There's nothing you can do for her now."
She ignored the voice and continued on.
“Please.” The voice seemed to beg, as she finally reached the girl.
“Stop.” Hermione ordered, her eyes meeting the kings, “You’re going to kill her.”
King Lucius's hair, once neatly bound, had come loose, strands clinging to his damp forehead. Sweat trickled down his brow, but the joyous grin remained fixed on his face. He was clearly enjoying this.
“That is the point, my dear.”
“She’s had enough.” Hermione said, placing herself between Lucius’s wand and the girl’s limp body.
"Very well," Lucius declared. He aimed his wand with a swift, merciless gesture. The girl's body, a broken doll, was propelled through the air, smashing against the stone floor with a resounding boom that echoed through the hall.
“CRUCIO!” Lucius shouted. The curse erupted, its invisible tendrils snaking towards Hermione, ensnaring her in their agonizing grip.
She felt her head connect with the solid ground. Her body convulsed, wracked by waves of excruciating pain. It was far worse than she could have ever imagined. Worse than any lashing, worse than any assault she had ever experienced, she felt as if her blood was being boiled inside her veins, like her skin was being ripped from her body.
The searing pain radiating through her was agonizing, but it wasn't the physical discomfort that truly terrified her; it was the suffocating feeling of powerlessness, of being trapped beneath a man's power. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, not just from the strain, but from the visceral terror of being held captive. The air thickened in her lungs, each breath a struggle against the crushing weight of the spell. Her despair threatened to consume her. This wasn't just a physical assault; it was a brutal reminder of her vulnerability, an echo of past traumas that refused to fade.
Jagged fragments of memories pierced through the fog of her panic.
Her small body tied to a steel stake, a shimmering gold whip ripping through the layers of skin…
Her hands restrained above her head, hot sickening breath on her face, the sound of a belt unclasping…
Tears, hot and stinging, streamed down her face, but they were no longer the product of fear. They were fueled by a white hot rage that burned in her chest, a furious inferno ignited. She pushed against the cold, unforgiving ground, her palms scraping against the rough surface. A searing pain shot through her broken body, a thousand tiny daggers threatening to drag her back down. She gritted her teeth, every muscle in her body screaming in protest, and forced herself to rise.
First to her hands and knees, then, with a shuddering gasp, to a crouch. Finally, she lifted her head, her gaze locking onto Lucius's with an intensity that made him flinch. Whatever he saw in her eyes – the defiance, the sheer, primal fury – clearly shocked him.
Ignoring the agonizing pain that lanced through her with every movement, she continued to push upwards. A guttural roar ripped from her as she continued to struggle. Lucius instinctively raised his wand again, and a fresh wave of agony washed over her. But she refused to falter. She refused to break. She continued to rise, her eyes fixed on him.
The scrape of chairs against the stone floor echoed through the hall as the girls, their faces pale with terror, rose in a flurry of movement and fled towards the relative safety of the walls. Draco, who now stood, was rooted to the spot.
She had somehow managed to stagger to her feet. She thought she was screaming, but the sound was swallowed by the deafening roar that pulsed inside her head. Her vision narrowed, focusing solely on Lucius, her eyes burning with an intensity that could have melted steel.
Around her, the grand dining hall seemed to dissolve into a swirling vortex of energy. The ancient stone walls trembled, the very air rippling and distorting under the onslaught of an invisible, overwhelming power. Goblets levitated, spinning lazily in mid air, while the heavy oak table rattled and vibrated, its contents leaping into the air as if caught in a sudden whirlwind. Waves of raw magic, potent and untamed, surged through the room, leaving a trail of crackling energy in their wake.
Hermione's screams intensified, morphing into a guttural cry that seemed to resonate with the chaotic energy swirling around her. It was a primal sound, filled with pain and unbridled rage, a raw expression of the power that surged through her veins.
Lucius stood frozen, his wand arm still outstretched, as if an invisible force had seized him, holding him captive. With a final, earth shattering cry, she unleashed the full force of her fury. An invisible wave of force erupted from her, slamming into Lucius with the power of a battering ram. He was flung backwards, his body colliding against the stone wall with a sickening crunch. He slid to the floor, limp and unconscious.
Hermione's knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground, her body finally succumbing to the overwhelming exhaustion. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle against the crushing weight of fatigue. She gently lowered her head to the cold stone floor, the coolness against her cheek helped soothe the heat that still coursed through her veins. Her eyelids fluttered closed, the world fading into a blur of darkness and swirling colors.
She felt a pair of strong arms encircle her, lifting her gently from the unforgiving ground. The touch was firm yet tender. She leaned into the embrace, her body finally relaxing, surrendering to the overwhelming need for rest. The last sensation she registered before darkness completely enveloped her was the feeling of being carried, cradled securely, away from the shattered remnants of the dining hall.
****
Hermione's eyes fluttered open, a sharp pain lancing through her skull. Her body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of hippogriffs. The room slowly swam into focus. Ginny, perched on a velvet armchair near the bed, looked up from the book she was reading, a gentle smile gracing her lips.
"Hermione, hi," she greeted softly.
"Sorry we won't get to spend more time together," Hermione mumbled, her voice raspy. She pushed herself up to a seat. "I suppose they'll be shipping me back to the seventh ring today."
Ginny's smile faltered. "Hermione," she began, her voice laced with concern, "I don't think you understand. You assaulted the king. He wanted you executed. It was only after a lot of pleading from Prince Draco that he's allowing you to live."
Hermione froze, the blood draining from her face. "What?"
"Lucius," Ginny continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "He was furious. He sees you as a threat. If you don't end up marrying Draco and pumping out powerful heirs, Lucius will likely find a way to get rid of you. If you don't win the selection, you will die. There's no going back to the seventh ring, not after what you did, not after the power you revealed."
"Ginny, I can't stay," Hermione protested, her voice gaining strength. "I have someone back home who depends on me."
"Pita?" Ginny asked softly.
"Yes," Hermione replied, confusion clouding her features. "How did you know?"
"You were saying the name in your sleep," Ginny explained.
"Oh," Hermione whispered.
Ginny leaned forward, her expression earnest. "Hermione, I was waiting for you in your room last night when Draco came bursting in, carrying you. You were unconscious, bruised and broken. He laid you on the bed, cast protective wards around the room, and spent hours healing you. After you were stable, he just sat by your bedside and watched you sleep. For hours. It was like I wasn't even there. I've known Draco my whole life, Hermione, and I've never seen him like that."
Ginny paused, her gaze intense. "He left to speak to his father, and when he returned, he told me he had convinced the king to let you live, to continue in the selection."
Hermione's head throbbed as she struggled to process Ginny's words.
"If you need anything," Ginny continued, her voice filled with conviction, "just ask him. I have a feeling he'll say yes. Ask him if Pita can come here to the castle, so you can watch over her."
"I don't want Pita anywhere near the king," Hermione said, her voice sharp with fear.
"Ask the prince to send soldiers to guard her?" Ginny suggested.
Hermione flinched. "No," she said firmly.
Ginny pondered for a moment, then her face brightened. "My mother has seven children. Most of us have left home, and she wanders around the house aimlessly now. She would love to have another child to care for. Pita could stay with her, in the first ring, at my family's home."
Hermione stared at Ginny, speechless. The generosity of the offer, the kindness in her eyes, took her breath away. She remembered the vibrant, carefree children she had seen playing in the first ring. It was a world away from the slums.
"Is it safe for Muggleborns in the first ring?" Hermione asked hesitantly.
"Yes," Ginny assured her. "And besides, no one would cross my mother. She's a force to be reckoned with. Plus, I'll be there too."
Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes. "Thank you, Ginny," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I'll try to talk to the prince."
Ginny beamed, her smile radiating warmth and hope.
A sudden thought struck Hermione. "Ginny," she asked, her voice trembling, "what happened to Elara?"
Ginny's shoulders slumped, her gaze dropping to the floor. "She's gone, Hermione," she said quietly, her voice filled with sorrow.