Author: Niobium PM
Hermione has been taken by the Death Eaters to be used against Harry Potter. Rating will probably go up.Rated: Fiction T - English - Tragedy - Hermione G. - Chapters: 3 - Words: 4,822 - Reviews: 9 - Favs: 5 - Follows: 5 - Updated: 12-19-05 - Published: 05-11-04 - id: 1858170
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I wish I had an excuse for why it took me so long to update (grins sheepishly). The only excuse I have is a horrible case of writer's block and a lack of time to work through it. This story is not abandoned. I will try to be better I promise.
On with the show.
Ron sat cross legged before the crackling fire, his head cocked to one side as he surveyed the chess board. His Weasley jumper, a deep burgundy color, lay crumpled beside him, the proximity of the fireplace making anything more than a light t-shirt unbearable. Harry lay across from him. On his stomach, his head was propped up on his upturned palms. His legs were bent at the knee. His feet crossed at the ankles pointed skyward. The fire reflected off his glasses, shades of red and gold replacing his sparkling green eyes.
Ginny sat in a large over stuffed chair. While the upholstery had obviously seen better days, the chair seemed to wrap around her in a comforting hug, molding to her body in all the right places as only well loved furniture can. Her legs were tucked beneath her, her face obscured by a cascade of auburn hair as she bent over her book "The Standard Book of Spells Grade 6". While not possessing Hermione's obsessive need to overly prepare during break time, as the youngest child of seven, and the only female in the clan, Ginny often felt the desire to prove herself. Her excellent bat boogey hex was an example of her ability to apply what she had learned.
The sounds of pots banging and dishes clattering drifted across the small room accompanied by a faint humming and the smell of freshly baked cookies.
"Ginerva Weasley, you promised that you would help me clean up in here." The voice of the Weasley matriarch was strong and firm. "I will not ask you again young lady." Her tone clearly expressed her annoyance at her daughter.
"Coming mom." The youngest Weasley called as she sat her book on the end table and extricated herself from her warm cocoon. The girl all but ran to the kitchen recognizing her mother's tone of voice and the danger it signaled.
The flames suddenly roared green and only Ron's keeper skills saved the chess board from Mr. Weasley's arrival home. The grandfather clock chimed merrily, the hand denoting Mr. Weasley moving from "Traveling" to "The Burrow".
Arthur Weasley quickly brushed the soot away that was stubbornly clinging to his work robes and sat his small satchel beside the hearth. The coat rack leaned over from its position by the hearth, eager to serve its purpose.
"Evening Ron, Harry. You had best wash up for dinner." Mr. Weasley said warmly, his fingers making quick work of the buttons that secured his robes in place. He shrugged out of the navy material and hung it on peg the coat rack extended to him.
The boys both called out their greetings as they raced for the stairs, neither wanted to be on the receiving end of Mrs. Weasley's displeasure.
Mr. Weasley crossed the room, meeting his wife as she exited the kitchen and wrapping her tight in a warm embrace. If Arthur held his wife a little tighter than normal, or if Molly's eyes were overly bright no one was present to comment.
A clanging noise in the hallway jerked Hermione from her fantasy. She scrambled quickly back into the corner of her tiny cell, pressing her back tightly against the cold concrete wall trying to make herself as small as possible. Her ears strained for the sound of approaching footsteps. Instead she heard muted swearing before the footfalls continued in the opposite direction.
One week, seven days, one hundred and sixty eight hours, or ten thousand and eighty minutes. Give or take. Not that she was counting.
Her captors had been at most indifferent to her presence, for which she told herself for the thousandth time she should be grateful. But she wasn't grateful, not entirely. Honestly, didn't they know who she was? Hermione Granger. Best friend to Harry Potter, the-boy-who-lived. Mudblood extraordinaire. Shouldn't they be torturing her, trying to extract information about Harry and the Order?
Oh what she could tell them.
Hermione blanched at the thought, and once again reminded herself to be thankful for their disinterest.
And with that thought expelled she found herself once again alone in the dark.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. She scrunched her eyes up tightly and pressed her fingers against her lids, waiting for the stars to begin their dance. Colors swirled, reds and whites. She watched the patterns swirl and check. It was stupid and childish, but sometimes Hermione found it hard to remember that there were colors and lights outside of her little cage.
They would come. Someone would find her.
She wasn't sure when she had started to think of him in these terms, but there it was.
She pulled her knees up to her chest, and rested her forehead against her knees. The Burrow. She was at the Burrow with its roaring fire, and the constant laughter, not locked up, not here.
The Burrow. Mr. Weasley smiled at his wife as he dipped her dramatically, causing her to giggle like a school girl before he kissed her deeply. A chorus of groans from children met their public display of affection. Molly swatted at the boys half heartedly while smiling at her family.
A grating sound outside her door jerked her back from her reverie.
It was still too early for them to be bringing her supper. Her stomach made that very clear. It had just began to form loose knots in her belly, uncomfortable, but not unbearable. The nausea had yet to set in, and the throbbing in her head was only a waltz, maybe a tango, but not the unmerciful beating of the salsa that would indicate the approaching arrival of mealtime. No. She was far too comfortable (she snorted at her new idea of comfortable) for them to be bringing her food.
She hadn't bathed for the past seven days, and her normally unruly curls were matted into a fairly good intimidation of dreadlocks. Dirt and dust had formed a gritty coating on her skin as it mixed with her sweat. Her sweat held a distinctly acrid scent, a quality only brought on by terror. Her nails were bitten down clear to the quick, a testament to both her fear and boredom. Her teeth and tongue felt as though they were coated in cotton. They had long sense eclipsed the fluffy feeling of a missed brushing. As the daughter of two dentists, this was almost the worst of the injustices she had suffered thus far.
There it was again. The grating sound was closer this time.
Her throat went dry, and she forced down the rising bile.
"Has the darkness taken you yet little witch?" The voice outside the door sent new waves of terror through her body, which slammed back further against the wall. Her hands pressed against her lips in an effort to muffle any sounds that threatened to escape her trembling frame. The voice was back, the one that haunted her dreams. The voice oozed through the cracks in the door.
At the sound of a key turning in the lock Hermione stifled a scream. She turned her head away from the door, burying her face in her hands. It was just her dinner. They were just early. She told herself, willing herself to believe it. Her body trembled violently as she tried to curl up inside herself.
"Are you scared mudblood? Your friends aren't coming for you. They've left you here to die. You mean nothing to them, to their cause. You were their pawn to be used and sacrificed as needed."
Not true. Not true. Not true. She chanted. Ron would come. Ron would save her.
The door swung open slowly, filling the room with blinding light. Hermione began making small mewing noises which caused the man in the doorway to laugh, a low sibilant sound hardly more than a hiss. Just dinner. It's only dinner. Her inner voice screamed.
"I can taste your fear little witch. So sweet." The voice hissed.
She heard a rustling sound, robes sliding over the cell floor disturbing the dust and the filth. Her mewling sounds grew louder despite her desire to remain silent. She burrowed her head in her chest. She pulled her arms up over her face, her hands fisted so tight her knuckles were nearly transparent as the skin pulled taunt over the bones, nails digging in to her palms.
"You do fear me little witch. It is intoxicating."
She cried out as a hand fisted in her hair jerking her head back, her skull connecting painfully with the stone wall. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter as a finger lightly traced her jaw. The nail scraped across her skin gently causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end. Her breathing was coming in short bursts, and her heart thrummed against her ribs.
She felt something warm and wet trail up her cheek. Oh God his tongue! Her mind screamed. She cried out and bucked her body back, her head once again slamming into the wall.
"So sweet." The voice hissed this time right against the shell of her ear. She could feel the heat of his breath as it crossed his lips. "Scream for me little one. It's so much better when they scream."