The Unfortunates

Disclaimer: All of the Harry Potter characters and the Harry Potter universe belongs to J.K. Rowling/Warnerbros. I am making no money.

Now, okay, since \"Seduction\" is all over, I thought I\'d publish my other story here... It\'s a lot more angsty than the previous one, but hey, we\'ll live, won\'t we? Let me know if this is readable at all... :)

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CHAPTER ONE: THE UNFORTUNATE WOMAN

Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around her as she walked lightly down the street of Diagon Alley, turning left as she reached the alleyway that would take her to the apartment she shared with Mandy Brocklehurst.

Apartment? Hell, that was a nice way of putting it. It was rather like a hole dug under the inn, a hole with two beds and a table in it, where the innkeeper had seen it fit to place the two young, unfortunate girls who had nowhere to go and practically no money.

The rain was falling steadier now. The soft dripping of water in puddles at the corners of each crooked building was calming, soothing, making Hermione long back to the times when a rainy day could be her biggest worry.

She reached Mr Warren’s inn and hurried inside, escaping into warmness from the now heavily pouring rain outside.

It wasn’t a nice inn – nor was it particularly friendly looking. But Mr Warren was a man who, according to himself, had pledged his life to take care of the more difficultly put witch or wizards in their community. Which was why the rent on a room was so low (or so Mr Warren claimed, but it really wasn’t the case if you compared the state of the room to the amount of money you paid for it), and the price for food was even lower (considering that the food was in an even worse state than the rooms, naturally).

Hermione spotted Warren at the reception, which really was little more than an old wooden desk, and tried desperately to hurry her way down to the basement before he spotted her.

Too late.

“Oi there – Gideon!” he shouted at her.

Hermione froze at the top of the stairs, putting on her best smile and turning to face Mr Warren, who was approaching her with a dangerous look on his face.

“Yes, Mr Warren?” she said innocently.

“You an’ that Brockleburst girly –”

“Brocklehurst,” corrected Hermione automatically.

“Whatever,” he snarled, “you and her, you’re late on the money, girl! Sounds familiar, doesn’ it?”

“Yes, well – we’re working as hard as we can,” said Hermione.

“Oh, are you now?” He sounded as though the very idea was ridiculous.

“We are! Where do you think I’ve been all night?” said Hermione indignantly. “But it’s not that easy!”

“Now, listen to me, missy,” barked Mr Warren, leaning in close to snarl at her, his whiskey breath in her face, “I want that money by Saturday. You hear me? I don’ care if you both end up in the streets, you can both rot for all I care – I want my money!”

“Yes, Mr Warren,” sighed Hermione and turned to descend the stairs.

“By Saturday!” he barked at her retreating form.

“Saturday,” she repeated with confidence, though she already knew her promise was impossible to keep.

One couldn’t call what she did a real job, though it was indeed the world’s oldest profession. And six months earlier, Hermione would have thought herself above whoever did that for a living – if anyone back then had claimed she’d actually be doing it for herself, desperate to stay alive, not a half a year later, she’d call them crazy and take it as a real insult.

How quickly things could change.

As the fourth to last step creaked and gave in, the wood cracked in two underneath her feet to reveal the body of a dead rat. Hermione was yet again reminded of how she probably would have given up on all of this a long time ago – if only it hadn’t been for Harry.

He wasn’t dead.

Voldemort had won the battle, overrun both Hogwarts, Hogsmeade and the rest of the wizarding world, and Harry was yet not dead.

Where he was, however, Hermione had no idea.

By sheer misfortune, she’d ended up fleeing in the opposite direction of everyone else fighting for the light when the battle was lost and they’d all run for their lives. Confusion, madness, murder and the stench of blood had been all around them, clouding their senses and their decisions.

Hermione had gone in one direction, Harry and a handful of others in another.

She knew he’d survived – she simply knew, because they were still looking for him.

Death Eaters were roaming the streets, no longer bothering to wear their masks and dark cloaks, but bearing in stead proudly the Dark Mark sewn into the shoulder of their robes, keeping a sharp eye out for anything that might give them a clue as to where this mysterious Potter and his rebellious group was hiding.

There even was a “Most wanted”-list. Harry was topping it. Professor Snape was number two.

Hermione sighed bitterly, thinking that it should’ve been Dumbledore – but he wasn’t around anymore to make it to such a list. No, instead the Death Eaters were desperate to get to the traitor who could have cost them their victory.

Hermione walked down the damped basement corridor and caught sight of one of the “Most wanted”-posters on the wall. She stopped to check if there were any changes at all:


Wizarding Britain’s Top Most Wanted Witches and Wizards,

List as presented by the Almighty Dark Lord and his faithful followers:

1. Harry Potter
2. Severus Snape
3. Hermione Granger
4. Remus Lupin
5. Nymphadora Tonks
6. Bill Weasley
7. Ginevra Weasley

The fugitives are known to be dangerous and armed, and are to be approached with caution.

Any sighting or information on any of these traitorous characters should be reported immediately. Failing to do so will result in imprisonment.


Hermione snorted. Imprisonment, indeed. That was a nice, formal way of putting it. Roughly translated, it meant that anyone who dared to keep information about these “traitors” would find themselves at the receiving end of a Cruciatus Curse, or perhaps a Dementor’s Kiss.

The list hadn’t changed since she’d last seen it, which worried her. She was always checking for updates, making sure no names had vanished (which would mean they’d been caught or killed), but also hoping to find new names added to the list. Not because she wanted her friends to be caught, obviously, but because the sight of only seven names on a list over those fighting Lord Voldemort was grim indeed. It suggested that they were the only ones left.

That pretty much everyone else was dead.

Hermione had no idea what had had happened to most of her friends and Professors from Hogwarts. In the chaos that followed Voldemort’s victory, they’d all been separated and left without any information, each and every one of them on their own; hoping, hiding...

They knew for a fact that Albus Dumbledore was dead. Apart from that, nothing was certain.

Maybe Ron was still alive. Most of the Weasleys. Perhaps Professor McGonagall...

Hermione shook her head, forcing the depressing thoughts away. There was no use pondering on these things, it would bring her no closer to the truth. Until she could figure out how to get in touch with her friends – obviously they were as well concealed as she was – she still had the problem of raising enough money to keep Mr Warren happy by this Saturday.

She pulled out her key from her inside pocket and locked herself into the tiny room she shared with the once Ravenclaw Prefect Mandy Brocklehurst, dropping her bag unceremoniously on the floor.

“Mandy?” she called as she closed the door.

“Yeah,” said a voice, and Hermione turned to face the room, spotting Mandy sitting on her bed, plucking the feathers out of her pillow.

“Warren won’t thank you for that,” commented Hermione, pulling of her heels and sitting down at her own bed to rub her exhausted feet.

Mandy grunted, but threw the pillow away. She caught Hermione’s eye and said in a serious voice: “We need the money by Saturday, Mira.”

“I know.”

Hermione sighed – Mira. That was her name now. Mira Jaya Gideon. She’d chosen it deliberately, if nothing else then at least to keep her spirits up. Mira meant “peace” to the Croatians, and in a way it could sound a bit like “’Mione” if you said it fast enough. Jaya was a Hindi name which meant victory, and the thought of still having a middle name that began with J was an encouragement to Hermione. Last, Gideon as a last name – once again, she enjoyed using the same first letter as her original name – and the name’s meaning could in fact be traced back to a Hebrew name which meant “powerful warrior”. It all helped maintain what little she had left of hope.

It went without saying she’d had to change her name as Voldemort had won the war. They were looking everywhere for her, after all – one of Potter’s best friends and allies, talented and on the loose – and a Mudblood at that! No wonder she was third on the “Most wanted”-list. But she’d cast numerous charms on herself, concealing the girl that was Hermione Granger, and in stead practically turning herself into Mira Gideon.

Her appearance was quite different – straightening her frizzy hair every morning was a real challenge, but it had to be done – and now she wore make-up (so as to look more seductive, obviously), had changed her eye colour from brown to icy blue, her hair colour from chestnut to a reddish blond and her lips were just an inch or so bigger than they had been. She was indeed fortunate that she was good at charms, or she’d be in big trouble. Her only way of survival these days was by appearing to be a whole other person – just another misfortunate woman in Voldemort’s Wizarding Britain, struggling to survive, barely managing...

Running into Mandy had been a piece of luck, at least. They’d both been in the same situation: Purebloods (“Mira Gideon” was a pureblood, obviously) but disowned and shunned away by their families, with no one to turn to. They’d found each other, earned enough money to get the worst basement room at Warren’s inn, and now they tried to get through the days working the streets like a common Muggle prostitute from back in the late 1800s.

“Did you get anything today?” asked Mandy in a hopeful voice.

Hermione shook her head. “Nothing. They’ve all become so snobbish, those looking for ‘a good time’... They all visit the brothels. Apparently there’s a bit of class to that.”

“Well, I suppose there is,” said Mandy, sighing. “They think we’ve got lice.”

“We don’t!” said Hermione angrily. “Stop being so negative, that’s not helping. We can use the shower in the corridor; along with the toilet – we’ve got a cheap breakfast deal here and roof above our heads –”

“Floor, more like,” snapped Mandy.

Hermione laughed. “Yes,” she agreed, “floor then.”

Mandy reached for the pillow again, plucking away at a few more feathers before she turned her gaze back to Hermione, her eyes filled with hope yet again.

“Maybe we could –” She hesitated.

“What?” said Hermione.

“Well – couldn’t we – you know – apply, so to say, to a brothel or something?”

“Apply?” echoed Hermione. “You mean, apply for a job?” She let out a short laugh. “My, that sounded professional, didn’t it?”

“Well, it’s an idea?”

“Sure it is. But who would take us? I mean, it’s like you said, they think we’ve got lice, don’t they... Or at least something of the sort. It’s style they’re after in those places, and we’re a bit short of that as it is now.” Hermione frowned for a moment, bringing a hand to her chin and thinking it over. “But if we could manage it... That’d give us a place to stay, no rent; it comes with the job...”

“No more doing small favours for Warren!” said Mandy enthusiastically.

Hermione nodded. “Absolutely. I’m getting sick and tired of his friends always trying to cop a feel or – well, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“All we’d have to do is get a good deal of money and buy some nice clothes for ourselves, appear as luxurious merchandise, you know...” She frowned. “Or maybe...”

Mandy raised her eyebrows. “What?” she asked urgently.

“Well, some of these brothels don’t care about clothes and stuff, they’ll fix that for us once we’re in – but they accept women who’ve been recommended. You know? Like, if a man comes in there and asks for either you or me, and he’s willing to pay loads...”

“And we don’t work there,” continued Mandy, catching Hermione’s trail of thoughts, “then the brothel owner would want to hire us, knowing we’ll draw that kind of customers!”

“Exactly,” said Hermione. “Now there’s a plan... But do we know anyone who’d be willing to do that? Do you have some regulars?”

“Plenty,” nodded Mandy, “but they’re all as poor as we are, practically. No chance in them doing us the favour, either. They don’t like me, really, they just... you know.”

Hermione nodded, tapping her chin with one finger. After a long silence, she spoke: “I think I have someone, though.”

Mandy’s eyebrows went up again. “You do? I thought you said you were doing horribly nowadays!”

“I am,” nodded Hermione, “but this guy’s been out of town. Whenever he’s in The Leaky Cauldron, he always seeks me out, every evening. He’s a very wealthy man, but – but I don’t know if he would do us the favour. He doesn’t really like me as a person, only as an object of enjoyment, you know?”

Mandy nodded. “But couldn’t you convince him? If he’s got loads of money, he should be able to just fanny about with a few bags of Galleons to a few brothels, making us sound like the most wanted duo in Diagon Alley...”

Hermione laughed. “Fat chance of that happening! Let’s think realistically for a moment – he might be willing to at least throw in a good word for us, perhaps hint to a brothel owner that having us there would benefit them... If I give him a really good night the next time he’s in the Cauldron.”

“Well, do that then!” said Mandy enthusiastically. “Who is he, anyway? Do I know him?”

“Don’t know if you do,” said Hermione, frowning. “I bet you know of him.”

“Well – who is he?”

Hermione sighed, her gaze falling to the stained and tattered floor as she answered: “Draco Malfoy.”

“Malfoy!” exclaimed Mandy, nearly falling off her bed.

“You have heard of him, then.”

“’Course I have! I went to school with him at Hogwarts, same year! Oh gods, he was a real bastard... He’s your special, wealthy regular?”

Hermione nodded, trying her best to keep her face blank. As far as Mandy knew, Hermione had never even been to Hogwarts, much less attended it. She’d never asked specifically where Hermione – or rather, Mira – had had her schooling though, but she must have figured out Hermione wasn’t entirely uneducated. Probably she just assumed Hermione’d gone to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, or one of the other wizarding academies in Europe.

“How well do you know him?” pressed Mandy.

“Oh – not well,” lied Hermione quickly.

“Just through business?”

Hermione nodded.

“How then can you say he doesn’t like you as a person? He doesn’t know you as a person, he only knows you as a – what did you call it – an object of enjoyment!”

“I don’t know,” sighed Hermione, “I’ve just got this feeling. He looks down on me, I guess. Because of my status, or something of the sort. Don’t ask me, I don’t know the man,” she finished, hoping she sounded convincing. In a way it was true – after all, Draco Malfoy had no idea she was really Hermione Granger. If he knew, she’d have been caught a long time ago. Maybe he just looked down on the unfortunate, period. And although something told her Mandy didn’t really believe her, Hermione wasn’t prepared to worry about that right now.

They had a plan – a way to get out of this hellhole, and to possibly get a slightly better future, even if it would still be in the same profession. Prostitutes at brothels were treated far better than those in the streets, and they would have food and a roof above their head without dreading a rat might come and bite their toes off during the night, at least.

No, Hermione wasn’t worrying about Mandy believing her.

She was worrying about how the hell she was going to get Draco Malfoy to put in a good word for not only her, but her friend also, at one of Diagon Alley’s brothels. Knowing him as she did, he would never do her that favour, no matter how well she did during a night’s activities.


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A/N: Well? Worthy of a review? And obviously, thanks so much to my beta JessiokaFroka! :)