Hostage of War

A/N: A huge thank you to my beta Sempra, who is a true genius!


Chapter 1

Traditions

A cold wind blew across the ravaged countryside not far from Hogwarts. Hermione Granger pressed her hands into the small of her back, bending backward to relieve the ache that had become a constant reminder of her work. She could have levitated the dead bodies over the battle field, but she felt it would be dehumanising them to disentangle their limbs with magic as if they were ragdolls.

She carefully extricated arms and legs from the piles, straightened appendages and repaired robes torn to shreds to give the departed a modicum of dignity. Then, and only then, would she levitate them into the designated grave and move on to the next.

Looking around she wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing blood over her face. She had no more tears.

Resigned Hermione bent down to remove a hand from another’s throat and placed it on the opposite shoulder. The other hand still held his wand and she left it there when she moved it across the body to the other shoulder. She did not know the man, but he had died fighting, as had so many others.

The last battle had cost so many lives that in the end, when the leaders called to retreat, only a few dozen on either side had stared at each other in bewilderment. Hermione had kept a record of the numbers for each battle. There was nothing to worry about anymore, really.

In the next, maybe the one after the next battle, wizards in Britain would be extinct.


***


The Great Hall of Hogwarts held what must have been the entire wizarding population of the nation supporting the Light. The hall was not empty by any means, all tables were full, every single seat taken, but that it was able to accommodate half the magical populous of the British Isle, was frightening.

Hermione rested her head on her hand, her elbow propped up on the table, eating her stew. Her parents had raised her better than that but she was too tired to care or even notice.

A firm hand landed on her shoulder, the grasp not hurting her, yet it was clear that it was a command rather than a request.

“Miss Granger, a word if you please.”

She looked into the Headmaster’s gray face and nodded, taking a last spoonful of stew into her mouth while rising to her feet.

She followed him through the battle ravaged castle, many paintings mourning the destruction of their homes, looking pitiful trying to avoid the slashes in their canvasses.

The Headmaster did not direct her to his office as she had expected, but led her further and further up, climbing endless stairs until he pushed open the doors to the platform on top of the astronomy tower.

The sun was setting. It was August, the days long and the weather beautiful. The waning sunlight painted red, pink and orange hues over an otherwise clear blue sky.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the battlement, silently observing the grounds and observing her watching the sunset. The soil was upturned and there was an eerie silence from the forbidden forest, as if all magical creatures had fled their habitat.

“It is truly beautiful.”

Hermione nodded, waiting.

“We have lost too many, Miss Granger.”

“It is the end, isn’t it, Headmaster?”

He turned to her sharply, suddenly fire and passion in his eyes and features. Hands lined with age gripped her upper arms so hard, pain was shooting through her.

“It does not have to be! Miss Granger, we can prevent this. We can prevent our society from vanishing; we can prevent becoming what we already are to most of the world, a legend.” He let go of her arms and turned back to the quickly darkening landscape. “Doing so would involve great personal sacrifice, Miss Granger. Great personal sacrifice.”

When she remained silent, he sighed.

“I know we are demanding so much of our young generation, to fight a war that had been started such a long time ago. So much weight on shoulders so fragile. So much horror for eyes so young.”

He stroked her tangled hair.

“I assume you have read Muggle history?”

She nodded hesitantly. History was a broad subject.

“Miss Granger, when countries, tribes, nations at war came to the point that neither could win, when a truce was essential to let the people, the economy and the land,” he gestured to the torn soil and ripped trees, “recover and regroup, do you know what has been done for centuries? In both the magical as well as the Muggle realm?”

Hermione could think of a number of things but could not find one that would apply to their situation. With a furrowed brow, she waited for the Headmaster to elaborate, afraid of what she might hear.

“Hostages are exchanged, Miss Granger.”

Her face fell into an unreadable blank mask and her mind rushed through historical facts, trying to analyze what this would mean. Julius Cesar, King Alfred’s wife, King Richard the Lionheart, Vlad Dracul...

“Of course...” her voice sounded flat in the silence of the night.

“Hostages have to be important figures for either side,” her first in command hurried to say.

“Naturally...”

“It could not be Harry, of course.”

“Of course...” she echoed.

“Miss Granger, the hostages would be treated very well. There are strong laws and strong magic protecting a hostage of war.”

She did not reply.

“We need time, Miss Granger, or we, as a society will cease to exist.”

“How long?”

“At least two years.”

He did not try to convince her that two years would pass quickly.

“When do I have to go?”

The old wizard sank to his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his, kissing them. His head was bowed and she could only hear his tears.

“Thank you, Miss Granger. Thank you.”


***


“Rise, my most trusted servants.”

Lucius Malfoy, Esmeralda Zabini, Claudius Nott and Pendragon Parkinson rose from their kneeling position before the throne-like seat of the Dark Lord.

“Our losses have been substantial.”

“So have been the losses on the other side, my Lord. Just one more strike and victory will be yours!” The female voice from the side of the room sounded crazed, high pitched and stumbled over her own words.

Only Bellatrix Lestrange was reckless enough in her insane devotion to her Master to overlook his solemn mood. She crawled to his feet after the effect of the Cruciatus curse would allow her to and kissed his extended dragon hide boot, thanking him for the attention.

“As I said. Our losses have been substantial. In order to rid our world of all the impure specimen that call themselves wizards and witches, we need resources. Both monetary and in numbers.”

Lucius Malfoy sighed inwardly. Being singled out at a meeting was always a bad sign. Being singled out when the Dark Lord spoke of monetary funds was a very bad sign for his vaults.

“Dumbledore has approached me. The light is weak. They are grovelling at our feet, afraid to die.”

Uneasy glances were exchanged among the ranks. Each and every one of them had lost a brother, a cousin, a wife to the merciless battles.

“We are going to call an armistice. In that period, we will triple our efforts in our preparations while the light will waste their time on infrastructure. At the end of the two year period, there will be no stopping us. We will wipe them out.”

The Dark Lord rose from his ornate armchair and turned to leave, black robes lined in scarlet trailing behind.

“Lucius, for the span of two years, you will take Hermione Granger into your household. Esmeralda, you will house Ginevra Weasley. Pendragon, Claudius, prepare to hand over your children to the Light.”

He strode to a high door in the wall close to the throne, shocked faces on all his disciples in his wake. “You are dismissed.”


***


“Draco!”

His father had been summoned earlier in the evening and he had not expected him to return any time soon.

A swift return could mean very bad news, indeed.

“Yes, father.”

Lucius nodded curtly at his only son, shedding his Death Eater robes and throwing them with a flourish into the air, only to be caught by a house elf that popped into the room for the mere fraction of a second.

He set his silver mask on a side table with a careless motion and drew a hand over his face.

“Narcissa!”

His wife swept into the study moments later, touching her cheek to his and kissing the air.

“Sit, both of you.”

Lucius started pacing the length of the room and back before coming to an abrupt halt in front of his waiting family.

“The Dark Lord and Dumbledore have declared an armistice,” Lucius announced.

The statement drew gasps from both his wife and his son.

“You know what happens in case of an armistice. We will exchange hostages.”

Narcissa’s gaze flew to her son, a hand pressed to her mouth and worry written all over her face.

Draco sat up straight and hoped that his father did not realise how hard his heart had started beating.

“Will I be sent away, father?”

Lucius looked at him startled.

“What? No. No, but we will be having company for the next two years or so.”

This time, Narcissa launched herself at her son, enveloping him in a crushing hug, kissing his hair.

He let her hold him for several seconds before he carefully disentangled from his mother’s arms. She sniffed a little and sat down next to him on the sofa.

“Who? Who has the Light decided to hand over?”

“That Granger girl.”

Draco was on his feet before he had registered his own action.

“The Mudblood? Father, surely you jest!”

“Sit down, Draco. You know me better than that.” He took a swig out of his crystal tumbler. “We will be obliged to tolerate her here, moreover, treat her ...” his face adopted a pained expression, “as an equal.”

Draco looked on in horror.

“A girl.” Narcissa’s voice sounded dreamy. “I always wanted a little girl.”

With a snort, Draco went to the liquor cabinet and poured some cognac into a wide, balloon-shaped glass.

“She is not a doll for you to play with, mother. More the studious type.”

“Every girl wants to be pretty, Draco,” his mother said with conviction.

Draco could imagine Granger to recoil from the word pretty as something entirely unnecessary and even undesirable.