Chapter Text
Hermione Granger is a doctoral student studying politics. Her greatest worry was whether the Poisson or negative binomial distribution was the better choice for fitting her empirical model for her upcoming presentation. It was this gnawing uncertainty that plagued her as she walked down the rainy cobblestones of Radcliffe Square at her university, her eyes fixed on the shiny grey ground beneath her beaten Reeboks, when the novel feeling of her entire form being pulled through a worm-hole by her belly button consumed her. After emptying her stomach and gaining her bearings she found herself in what could only be described as a mansion, a manor, surrounded by four grown men–strangers–a brunette with pacifying eyes, a tense toe-head with eyes of gunmetal, an older gentleman with long black hair and hands held out, and a broad patriarch with remarkably long platinum hair. He held a stick toward her. They all did. She couldn’t make sense of her predicament, she was still half concerned with her near consensus on the Poisson or negative binomial.
Four men were always a threatening prospect, however, none of them had real weapons, just sticks. The sheer shock of experiencing what could only be described as transport-by-wormhole is what made her drop her books and back dangerously close to the pool of her vomit, making her cringe. The thud echoed throughout the high ceilings of the seemingly ancient and large domicile she now stood in.
The men didn’t speak first and Hermione felt that it was not her obligation to speak either. She did not know what was happening but she figured she was the one who knew the least about it currently. Although each of the men was effectively herding her between them, blocking any escape, each of their eyes seemed to express something akin to mollification with an additional hopeful quality.
The first to speak was the one with the long black hair.
“Sweetheart, we won’t hurt you. You’re safe.” He took a step closer and she instinctively backed up. This was a stupid move because she backed right into another one, the one with brown hair, making her jump sky-high and shriek. They all started talking at once, seemingly trying to pacify her, which confused her more and raised her hackles.
“Sweetheart, its ok-”
“We won’t hurt you-”
“Back up Theo, you’re scaring-”
“Shut up Draco!”
The cacophony confused her further and the nature of her predicament was nowhere near anything described in the one self-defense class she took a year ago. She figured one principle was consistent–run. She made a break for it between the one with the long blonde hair and the one who had spoken first, just barely dodging their hands, leaving her only bag with all of her research notes and textbooks behind, tragically. She was just starting to make out a potential way out of the manor when she learned that those sticks were indeed weapons afterall. A bright red light illuminated the hallway she had made her way down and then her body went stiff, her vision closed in and the last thing she saw was the pristine marble floor racing towards her face. Her final thought, the Poisson was the better choice.