Harry Potter: The Price of Silence.

Nothing worked. She couldn't breathe. She didn't care that it would probably taste like smoke. Didn't care that it would be inhaling in the ashes of her friends' disintegrated bodies. She just needed to breathe!

"Hermione!" a voice pleaded somewhere in the distance. "Please get up! Oh please, please get up!" The voice got louder; cool hands clasped around her neck and shoulder and lifted her off the ground. "Hermione, can you hear me?! I can't Apparate you if you're not conscious! It's too dangerous! Please open your eyes."

"....T... Tonks?" Hermione's vision cleared slowly, coming back into focus the more she blinked.

"Oh my … I thought we lost you." Tonks' vibrant red hair came into view. She was hovering above Hermione; severely burnt but alive.

The once blue-grey sky was now black, covered in thick, heavy smoke and ash flittering through the air.

Hermione struggled, but managed to raise herself onto her elbows. "We need to go," she said. Her fingers fumbled for her wand to Apparate. "I'm fine."

"Okay, let's get you out of here."

All the Death Eaters had been immobilized, either unconscious or bound with unbreakable chains or ropes. Unable to move but watching.

The only threat was-

The dragon.

Adrenaline shot through Hermione. White-hot, searing adrenaline that pushed the dizzying ache from her skull and cleared her vision immediately.

How could she have forgotten? Where was the dragon?

"Steady," Tonks hushed as she pulled a panicking Hermione to sit up straight. "You're bleeding everywhere-"

Tonks never finished her sentence.

Her words were cut off. Her tender whisper died on her tongue as her lungs were sliced in half. The hex, that Hermione didn't see, ripped through Tonks so violently that it tore her body in half, and left a jagged, crimson line from her left shoulder to her right hip.

Hermione tried to lurch to her feet. A scream tore its way up her throat as both parts of Tonks' corpse landed either side of her with a thud, but before she had even reached her wand, unforgiving chains wrapped around her. They pinned her arms to her sides and bound her legs together, making her unable to support her weight. She fell onto her back again, screaming. The more she fought against the restraints, the tighter they bound her. The metal dug into her skin, bruising and biting as she tried to kick her legs out. They crushed her chest and squeezed her lungs as she twisted on the ground, practically suffocating her.

Over her screams, she heard the thunderous clap of wings. The ground shook violently as she looked up to see Black Shadow land a few feet away from her. It flapped its colossal wings, and a final bone-chilling roar emitted from deep in its chest. It lowered its head and shoulder to the earth -

"Hermione fucking Granger," the Demon Mask -Tonks' murderer - sneered as he dismounted the dragon. His voice was sharp as a blade but strangely familiar, even through the voice altering charm. "We've been looking everywhere for you."

12th December

Hermione's throat was sore. Merlin, it was fucking sore. She didn't think she'd ever screamed this much in her life.

Her wrists were cut. Blood trickled down her arms as she thrashed against the metal restraints he'd bound her with again and again to no avail.

She'd tried to fight with every fibre of her being to get away from the Demon mask. She'd tried to head butt him, kick him, even tried to bite him as he'd roughly yanked her to her feet and dragged her across the field. She'd gotten a few good shots in; a satisfied smirk on her face when he'd lifted her onto the dragons back, putting her in the perfect position to kick him in the chest with the flats of both her feet.

The smirk vanished, however, when he'd retaliated with a very ungentle Stupefy between her eyes.

She'd been mostly unconscious after that. She'd woken a few times, jolted awake by the thunderous clap of reptilian wings, but it was only temporary. Her eyelids always fluttered closed before she could get a grasp on her surroundings.

Hermione's senses - and her fight - started to return when the city of York came into view some hours later. She was still a little groggy when the dragon circled the cathedral, but by the time it landed on the cobbled streets, she was wide awake.

The Demon Mask curled his fingers around Hermione's restraints, pulling her right alongside him as he slid off Black Shadow's back. He cast a charm on her chains, loosening them just enough to allow her to walk.

Not that she had any intention of doing so.

As soon as he started to drag her along, Hermione dug her heels into the ground and pulled back. They struggled for a moment or two, but eventually the Demon Mask huffed, and cast a wordless hex that knocked the air from Hermione's lungs. She collapsed from the intensity of it, but the Demon didn't seem to care; just grabbed the chains around her shoulders, and dragged her backward through the streets.

The exact location of Voldemort's base had never been known to The Order. They knew it was somewhere in the North Yorkshire area, somewhere easily accessible with plenty of Floo connections. They guessed it was somewhere elaborate and ostentatious, but he moved so often it was nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact whereabouts.

Thinking back now, Hermione was furious that she didn't realize it before. York Cathedral; what an obvious place for his centre of operation. It was the perfect stadium; large, regal, a demonstration of his strength and wealth. The perfect place to showcase his growing power. The high, jewelled windows and lustrous gold trimmings were sure to allure new recruits, seducing them with mirages of riches and power. It sang of all the promises his loyal followers could attain, if they served their mighty lord well, of course.

Maybe Voldemort considered himself a king amongst his loyal dogs. He never seemed the type for jewels and gold before, but greed and illusions of grandeur always did do interesting things to the mind.

The cathedral itself was breath-taking. Hermione didn't think she'd ever seen a place so grand, even before the war. It was undeniably bursting with magical energy; a fortress of solid beauty and endless possibilities. Even if it was warped by Voldemort's repugnant influence, it still was quite bewitching to behold. As she was dragged across the floor and the stone cut into her legs, she couldn't help but think how truly magnificent the building was. A triumph to Muggle architecture. It was no wonder Voldemort wanted to make it his own, manipulate it to show that Wizarding folk were vastly superior. Even though the silk tapestries were replaced with dark curtains, and the images of Christ were transfigured into serpents, it still took Hermione's breath away.

She imagined the pews were previously filled with rows upon rows of men and women, all with kind eyes and gentle hearts, hymn books clutched to their chests as they peacefully worshipped their God. The image almost warmed her.

But there were no kind eyes in the room now. Rows of cloaked figures replaced them; filled with masks of Black and Gold metal. Their hearts were like ice; dead as the people they'd murdered when they took over this Holy place and made it their centre of operation. There was no warmth in here now, not anymore.

The air was particularly freezing. Hermione's breath frosted in front of her as she panted and struggled against her restraints. There would be no warmth from prayers to erase the chill that was seeping into her bones.

Dementors circled overhead, bowing and floating softly on the ceiling of the cathedral. Their black cloaks eclipsed the murals of angels and cherub's, covering them like ominous shadows, like the grim reaper itself.

Well, that explains the cold, Hermione thought bitterly. Their proximity sent a chill down her spine.

Voldemort sat on a dark throne at the end of the aisle. His long, grotesque nails were wrapped around the edges of the armrest. The Demon Mask threw Hermione at his master's feet and then knelt beside her. He bowed, and when she didn't follow his lead, he grabbed the back of her neck and pushed her head to the floor.

Maybe Hermione was wrong. Maybe Voldemort didn't think he was a king amongst his loyal Death Eaters. Maybe he thought he was a God to them, their own dark prince who had been resurrected, born again from the ashes of the old war to rise and lay claim to the newer, more lenient world. A world which had grown a little more tolerant of muggleborns, and even formed a small, secretive alliance with Muggles.