Disclaimer: I do not own Harry, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling's novels. I did not write this for slander nor did/do I make any profit from it.
Rating/Warnings: M for sexual themes, notsographic torture, and notsographic insanity.
Timeline: Final Battle, DH AU if you wish. I don't.
Rape of the Daughter of Hogwarts
She was damp and cold, clothed only in a thin and shredded robe that had been harshly pulled over her head upon her arrival. Her pale, thin arms were decorated with bruises that stuck out painfully on porcelain skin, shadowed only by the bronze and rusted shackles adorning blue tinged wrists. Once vibrant and exasperatingly alive brunette hair now lay flat against her head, oily to the point of near black appearence, falling over haunted eyes that no longer appeared honey in color, but the hue of dry blood spilt in violence.
Hermione Anne Granger, seventeen, sat in Azkaban, and Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were dead.
She had built a home in the little cell she had resided in for the past month -- the right corner, free of webs and spiders and nearly all dust, was her bedroom; the small oval spot near the bars, where the dusky sun bathed light, was her living room; the spot next to that, not even two feet away, the kitchen. And the darkest corner, home to the mice and spiders and webs, that was her Hell. The spot she was sanctioned to everytime the Dementors drew near. The dark cement wall would be permanently stained with her blood from where she had scratched at it in desperate attempts to escape -- where her fingernails had shredded away and left the vulnerable flesh of her fingers to continue the work.
Her knees were weakened, her wrists were scarred, and her once brilliant mind had been stuffed away -- hidden -- in hopes of preserving sanity.
Though she knew even now that it was in vain.
.T.
Two months, now, or at least she believed. The shackles had been removed after her wrists had limply slipped from them one time too many, now replaced with a large and binding rope that would have been painful if pain wasn't already her constant companion. Her food portions were steadily becoming smaller, and even she, used to lack of proper portions, felt hunger gnawing at her stomach for the first time in weeks. She knew, on some level, that she had made her guards angry, that this subtle nightmarish change in her already desolate world was punishment. It wasn't her fault they asked silly questions.
"Where is Harry Potter?"
Dead.
She had repeated the word over and over again, no matter their wording, no matter their force. It was the truth, what more did they want? She had seen it herself.
"What is the location of the Order of the Phoenix?" .
She was not far enough gone to give them that particular answer.
Though she had felt vigorated enough once to respond "England."
She only wished to resulting Crucio could have lasted just a little longer.
She had new bruises by the time the second month became the third. New bruises, less food, more torture, and no idea why they kept asking for Harry Potter.
.T.
During the third month, her mind began to resurface, for during the third month, there were less Dementors gliding about and more whispers from the other prisoners. Rumors of the Order burning through a sudden rage, of merciless and accurate attacks befalling Death Eaters that left them dead instead of wounded. Rumors of a new leader, who was on a different mission other than defeating Voldemort.
But where the Dementors had gone, the guards had multiplied. Where she had once been given large breaks between nightmares, she was now endlessly subjected to a new kind of torture. Eyes staring at her at every moment, leering at her body, sparking with amusement as she attended to her business, smoldering with lust every time the too-large collar slipped from her shoulder and exposed her emaciated body.
At night, she could hear her cell door creak open, could hear the muffled footsteps on the the floor, could feel the cruel caress of callous hands across her dinty robe. Large fingers threading through her hair as a husky voice whispered crude and taunting words. Nothing more had happened, ever, but the constant violation forced her mind to retreat once more, further into the safe caverns of her mind, where the memories of years past -- of gold and crimson and red and black -- kept her in a facade of company.
.T.
By the fourth month, she received a cup of gruel a day, no more, no less, though it was certainly more than what she had been given before. The guards were distracted, the inmates alive with whispers of new hope. The Death Eaters were losing, they whispered to eachother. The Order was near.
Hermione never heard the hope, she never noticed the sun growing lighter, or the warmth that was now seeping into her cell. She could not feel the pain of her recent Cruciatus curses, did not see the blood that still seeped from the cuts on her skin. She was barely aware of the man wrapped around her, of the hand slipping beneath her collar to fondle her, of the other dangerously creeping up her leg.
"Where is Harry Potter?" A voice whispered in her ear. She and her other hated that question.
"Dead." Her voice was raspy, thick with dryness and burning and blisters from her screams. "Dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead." She slowly rocked her body, repeating the chant in a daze, eyes straight ahead as the hands finally reached their destination.
Her mind could remember him falling -- both of them falling. Ron had been injured, laying on the ground and clutching his side, where blood was gushing from a Cutting Curse. Harry was knelt in front of him, absently shooting curses at the surrounding Death Eaters as he tried desperately to staunch the blood flow. Hermione had been too caught up with keeping an equally injured Luna protected from flying spells to warn him. She had seen Lucius Malfoy approach, had seen the wand drawing. Her mouth had been opened, scream ready when the familiar, deadly green light had engulfed her best friends. She had seen them fall.
"Why won't you believe me?" She whimpered desperately. All that responded was a cruel chuckle and a violent squeeze. She retreated again, mentally, escaping so far that she didn't feel the cruel hands yank away, didn't hear the pained cry. That she didn't recognize the cerulean eyes that stared down at her in pained horror as she was lifted into strong arms.
They were dead.
End
I'm struggling on working on darker material, so I'm practicing. :) Click that little review button down there and let me know what you thought, please?
-Me
(And if anyone could fill me in on why the last half is centered, I'd be much appreciative.)