Doesn't count

Chapter 1

Despite herself, she knew she could count on Beatrice. They had developed a strange yet unbreakable bond over the years, one built on shared secrets and mutual reliance. Beatrice was more than just a resource; she was a confidante, someone who understood the complexities of their world and the lengths they had to go to survive. Hermione often marveled at how fate had brought them together, each with their own scars and stories, yet united by a common goal: to get out of this shithole.

Their partnership had been forged in the crucible of Wool's Orphanage, where survival often meant pushing moral boundaries. Hermione and Beatrice had seen each other at their lowest, shared moments of triumph and despair, and learned to trust when trust seemed foolish. They were two sides of the same coin: Hermione with her sharp mind and strategic wit, and Beatrice with her street smarts and social affinity. Where Hermione hesitated, Beatrice pushed forward; where Beatrice faltered, Hermione steadied her. It was a symbiosis born of necessity, but it had then grown into something deeper. As Hermione reflected on their journey together, her mind drifted back to that first encounter, the day that had set them on this path.

Beatrice Bancroft was around eleven when she and Hermione first met. Her auburn hair was cut short and paired with asymmetrical bangs. She had a pale complexion to rival that of Carmilla by Sheridan and a skinny physique to match. Most notable, though, were her lined wrists. Heavily lined with thick, scarred flesh. Her olive green eyes were unfocused, almost like she was in a permanent state of daze, her lips dry and caked with blood. 

***

On the 16th day of February, in the year 1958,

"Hi, my name's Hermione. What's yours?"

Hermione's hand hung in the air, trembling slightly as she fought the urge to lower it. The girl before her, a waif-like creature with hollow eyes and matted red hair, stared at the outstretched palm as if it were a venomous snake.

"Hi, I'm Hermione," she repeated, her voice cracking. The words felt alien in her mouth, as if she were speaking a language she'd only just learned. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Hermione's mind raced. She could almost hear her father's voice: "A firm handshake and a warm smile, poppet. That's how you make friends." But Dad wasn't here. Neither was Mum. They were... gone. The thought hit her like a physical blow, and she stumbled slightly. The other girl flinched, backing away.

"Wait!" Hermione blurted, desperation seeping into her voice. "I... I'm new here. There was a car... and then..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. How could she explain something she barely understood herself? Instead, she latched onto a lifeline of normality. "I'm from 8 Heathgate, Hampstead Garden Suburb, London." The address tumbled from her lips, each word a talisman against the stark reality of her new surroundings. "Where are you from?"

The other girl's eyes widened, a flicker of something—recognition? envy?—passing across her gaunt face. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "Nowhere. I'm from nowhere."

Hermione felt a chill run down her spine. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a harsh voice cut through the air.

"Granger! Stop bothering the other children and get to your bunk!"

As Hermione turned to face the matron, she caught a glimpse of the other girl slipping away, melting into the shadows of the orphanage. She was left alone, her hand still outstretched, grasping at nothing but empty air. In that moment, Hermione realized that making friends here would be far more complicated than her parents had ever prepared her for. And as the matron's heavy footsteps approached, she wondered if she'd ever feel at home in this strange, cold place that was now her world.

***

The memory faded, and Hermione found herself back in the present, her hand unconsciously tracing the edge of her hidden notebook. That first encounter with Beatrice seemed like a lifetime ago. How much has changed since then? How much had they endured and grown?

Shaking off the remnants of nostalgia, Hermione refocused on the task at hand. Tomorrow's visit to Michael's house was crucial, and every detail needed to be perfect. She flipped to a fresh page in her notebook and began to outline her plan:

Firstly, she'll meet with Beatrice in the next few hours to collect her hypnotics. Then, she'll meet with Lizzie early in the morning to brief her on her role and provide her with the necessary paraphernalia. Lastly, she will reunite with Michael and have Lizzie woo his folks while Hermione maps his home and pinpoints exactly where he keeps those prized pounds.

Yet, Hermione was no fool. This was a long game, requiring patience and cunning. "Immediate theft would be tantamount to confession," she mused, her pen tapping rhythmically against the page. No, she'd bide her time, either fabricating a scapegoat or waiting for the perfect moment to strike, ensuring her own hands remained clean.

As much as Wool's chafed, it provided a modicum of security. Her previous forays into homelessness had proven fruitless; no one in their right mind would shelter or employ a nine-year-old vagrant. The orphanage's location, nestled amidst middle-class respectability, was both a blessing and a curse.

However, the meager rations doled out at Wool's were scarcely sufficient to sustain a growing child. As time wore on, even this paltry sustenance dwindled. Mrs. Cole, in her twisted quest for control, wielded hunger as a weapon. Grueling hours of physical punishment became the norm, and each transgression—real or imagined—met with a swift and cruel response. But it was the withholding of meals that cut deepest, a deliberate torment designed to break Hermione's character.

With her body aching, her mind blank, and her spirit sufficiently crushed, the gnawing emptiness in her belly became a relentless agony, threatening both her wits and her resolve. Each pang acted as a reflection of the precarious nature of her existence and the urgent need to secure her own means of survival. In this war of attrition, Mrs. Cole may have thought she was teaching obedience, but she was inadvertently forging a kleptomaniac with a silver tongue and control issues.

By all means, she was the girl version of what was to be Tom Riddle. Mrs. Cole dreaded that fact; it seemed like this was common nature for freaks like him. 

Although lookwise, she can never truly match his superficial appearance as a child, but she was far more creative and, importantly, braver.

Whereas Tom hesitated to preserve his image and connections, Hermione consistently pushed boundaries and challenged norms to achieve her goals. He valued quantity, while she prioritized quality. In the end, both attained their desires, yet their methods and motivations diverged significantly.

Though Hermione was far from being morally white, and as long as her wants were attained, she cared not for the most part about ethics. But that was all to it. She acted on her desire to survive and thrive; he acted upon his power-hungry, sadistic fantasies.

And as her plan took shape, Hermione felt the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. This—the meticulous plotting, the calculated gambles, the tantalizing promise of reward—this was her lifeblood. Beyond mere material gain, though those were certainly welcome. It was about proving herself, about building something in this world that had taken so much from her.

"Tomorrow," she breathed, a wolf's smile playing across her lips, "the game truly begins."

With a final, scrutinizing glance at her handiwork, Hermione sealed the notebook away in its clandestine nook. Patting the floorboards shut, she settled into her spartan bunk, her mind whirling with possibilities, each scenario more daring than the last. Tomorrow loomed large, pregnant with potential, and Hermione Granger was poised to seize every opportunity it offered.

***