So this is the start of my first longer fanfic. Please tell me what you think. I hope to update every few days, but we'll see...
Hermione felt a wrenching sensation at her navel, the familiar tug of apparition, as she pictured her destination as she had always done in her apparition lessons. This, of course, was a thousand times more difficult. And then she another tug, a tug that was clearly wrong and not her own. She struggled to keep her concentration as she felt herself being pulled away from where she had landed, even as she saw her destination materialize in front of her. If only Harry would have the good sense to let go at the right moment, he and Ron would be safe..
It was her last thought before she blacked out entirely.
***
It was only seconds later that she awoke once more, to find herself in the arms of an unknown, black-robed man. Ron and Harry were nowhere to be seen ; she could only pray that they had arrived safely. Looking down, she saw that her arm was covered in blood, although she could see no cut : she felt the bile rising in her throat.
Her captor gripped her tighter as she shifted, but did not look at her directly, making it impossible to discern his identity.
Hermione's mind was racing, filling with possible scenarios and escape plans, and, more importantly, sifting through plans for immediate flight.
A second later, her teeth found the man's arm and tore into his skin ; she tasted blood, but didn't wait to let herself feel revulsion at the idea. Instead, she pulled herself violently from his grip, kicked him hard as she freed herself from him, and got her first foot on the ground. She heard the man swear, before she felt everything swirling around her ; the world shrunk and turned dark.
***
What a stupid way to be captured, was Hermione's first thought when she awoke, head still spinning. Fainting in the middle of an escape attempt seemed like the ultimate failure, like the sort of thing a pathetic, wimpy girl would do. She had let down Harry and Ron, that much was certain. Where were they? If only they had reached safety before she had been pulled back by the Deatheaters. It was the not knowing that was the worst, she decided.
The place where she had woken was almost pitch black, although a dim ray of light shone from a crack high up on the wall, illuminating a trail of dust, swirling in the half-darkness. The ground beneath her felt cold and hard, and she felt a thick layer of dust run through her fingers when she ran her hand along it. She shuddered.
A violent shiver came upon her suddenly, and she rubbed her hands along her arms in an effort to warm herself. Feeling the now sticky, congealing blood that still coated her left arm, she felt the bile rise once more, and this time she could not contain it.
It felt like sometime later that she heard voices outside. By then the dark room where she sat, wandless, reeked of throw up.
"We have to wait for the Dark Lord, fool!"
The other man's voice remained indistinct.
"Do you truly imagine that he would forgive you if any harm befell the girl?"
"It would hardly be... life-threatening." The second man's voice, audible now, gave rise to a deep revulsion in Hermione's stomach, coupled with the almost overwhelming fear that came as she digested the men's words: what, exactly, did "not life-threatening" amount to?
"Is a few moments of gratification worth the threat of the Cruciatus, or death? If you are so desperate, find yourself a whore who is not so necessary to our plans, Knot." Oh, thought Hermione, horrified. The first Deatheater's voice was heavy with sarcasm ; the sneer that was surely gracing his features was almost audible.
Hermione glanced at the crack through which the only light entered : no chance of escape through there. Wandless, she certainly had no chance of escape once her captors came into the room with her.
"The Dark Lord doesn't care what we do with the girl. And if I were you, I would think hard before you decide to use that tone with me again." Their voices were getting louder, closer.
Hermione forced herself to her feet for the first time since she had arrived, the approaching danger clearing the haze that had kept her immobile, unthinking, since she had woken. Once again, everything spun, but this time she managed to lean into the wall beside her for support, and, slowly, her balance returned to her, although her head pounded.
"Please, Knot, at least try to comport yourself with some semblance of maturity."
The voices were too close ; the door was creaking open now, before she had even managed to take a step. She was trapped. Not that she wouldn't have been anyway, she thought bitterly.
"Lumos," one of the men muttered as the door swung open, then closed again, admitting the two Deatheaters. The cold light played on their faces, revealing, to Hermione's shock, Snape's hooded figure.
She realized she was gaping, and closed her mouth. It was one of those moments when she found herself unable to think : disjointed thoughts just whirled around her head, and she could not process any of them. Everything was too incomprehensible, moving too fast. The theoretical knowledge of Deatheaters' cruelty, or of Snape's betrayal, was a totally different thing than to actually be in the hands of the enemy, helpless.
How had she let this happen to her? She was supposed to be the smart one, the one doing the rescuing, not the feeble girl, caught because she fainted at an inopportune moment. If only she had been stronger!
Snape's lips moved, and ropes flew out of nowhere and bound her hands, tightly.
"Come with us," he commanded roughly, and pushed past the hapless Knot, who turned to follow him, scowling.
The walk that followed seemed to drag on for an eternity : there was complete silence now. Instead, the sound of shoes squelching in an unidentified substance that puddled on the floor was abnormally loud to Hermione's ears. It seemed to echo off the walls of the long stone corridor that they walked along, in a darkness alleviated only by Knot's wand and the occaisonal torch.
Finally, they reached a twisting staircase that the Deatheaters turned up, and as they rose, the light gradually came brighter, and the stench receded. All of the sudden, everything seemed shockingly real to her, as if the light brought her out of the strange dreamstate that she had fell into since her arrival. With that new awareness came terror, washing over her in waves. She fought not to drown, to lose herself to blind panic.
Think, Hermione, calm down, she chided herself. She always found that talking to herself as a child helped in dire situations, and even now she felt her heartrate decelerate slightly. Unfortunately, her famed brain remained blank of ideas.
***
Leagues away, two figures lay motionless on a thick bed of moss and pine needles; blood soaked into the ground around them, but it was unclear where it came from. No injury was immediately visible on either body.
A movement, the rustling of leaves. An arm reached for ground, found it. A head of black hair shot up, shook out forest residue and dirt.
"Ron? Ron!" He shook the other figure.
"Are you -- Oh, Merlin." He was speechless, unable to do anything but stare at the boy beside him, at the empty socket that once held a limb, at the face that was now disfigured almost beyond recognition. "Ron!"
He screamed it but his voice fell on empty silence, reverberated around the forest, mocking him.
***
The trio was approaching their destionation; Hermione could tell by the increased tension, the way Snape clutched his wand so tightly. The veins in his hand stood out so prominently, each finger curled and displaying angry purple lines. It was easier to concentrate on these mundane things, rather then try to understand what was happening. To think of the near future was to invite terror into her mind, terror that she barely held at bay, even now.
***
The body moved, a slight shift of the torso that made the needles crackle and rustle. Harry thought he might cry with relief. He had already removed his jacket, shirt and socks; they were now wrapped around various parts of Ron's body. He had not managed to stop the bleeding entirely, although a combination of Muggle first aid and basic healing spells had done wonders.
"Please Ron..." It was all he could think, as though his pleas could somehow bring Ron back from wherever he had gone.
"Harry?" The voice was so weak, Harry thought at first he had imagined it, but then it came again, that weak, reedy plea that didn't sound anything like Ron.
"Don't worry, Ron. We'll get you out of here. We'll stop this."
But Harry could not think what to do, where to go. If he went to St. Mungo's, they would both be killed or Kissed. Worse, Ron's family would be endangered, as it would become clear that Ron was not, in fact, at home sick. Where was Hermione? He had been trying to hold back that thought, but he could no longer. He pushed it aside; he could do nothing for Hermione now. He had to do what he could, save Ron. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he ignored them, bending over Ron and pulling out his wand.
As he continued to cast healing spells, tears rolled down his cheeks, unstoppable. He pushed them aside; he would not let his ridiculous tears hinder Ron's recovery.
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