Chapter One
She licked her lips, tasted the iron tang of blood, felt the cracks of neglectful treatment. She rubbed her cheek against the stone, breathed in the dust, the bodily fluids, the hate.
How does one smell hate, taste it like a tangible item? If it was possible, she was carrying out this odd idea.
Should she sit up? What was the point?
To live. You have to live.
But why? For what purpose?
You have to get back to them, get back to Harry, to Ron, to life…
What did it matter anymore, really? They'd failed, hadn't they? Hadn't she failed to pull Harry through like she knew she had to? And this, this was what her life had been reduced to as a result. She deserved it, really.
Without much planning, she rolled onto her back, her hair crackling beneath her head from the caked blood. It wasn't recent; she hadn't seen a soul in days. The pain had almost ceased to bother her any longer. Almost.
Her breath curled into ribbons, twining and winding into itself before evaporating into the darkness before the next exhale produced yet another. And another. And another.
____________________________________________
They weren't coming.
She admitted it to herself for the first time since she'd arrived. At first she'd fought, she'd resisted. She'd known that if she just held on, took as many out as she could, that they would find her, come for her, break her out of this hell. But the hours had turned into days, the days to weeks, the weeks into endless months. How long had it been? She didn't know. She would probably never know. She'd counted the days by the rising sun for a while, and when she was moved to a windowless cell, counted the seconds, the minutes, the hours. She'd lost track, of course she had. So she'd carved it into the wall. She wrote the treachery so no one would ever forget. But she had forgotten what she'd been writing about. So she'd stopped.
It was a fleeting thought she'd pushed away. She'd made excuses, talked herself into believing. But there was no use. If she had to fool her mind, wouldn't she lose herself as well? They may have broken her body, her spirit, her pride, her magic, but they wouldn't break her soul, the only thing she had left. And what a soul it was.
__________________________________________
The guards took her out of the underground cell today. They said she was worthless where she was, that she would join the others soon, be put to work. It didn't matter if she spent her time in a cell or plowing a field. It didn't matter anymore.
She wasn't taken straight to the barracks. She was taken to the above ground cells, the ones for interrogation, for torture. She had been there for a long time before they had grown bored of her silence and thrown her below. The food they shoved at her face made her stomach growl. She kicked it away. She'd rather die.
They questioned her again, as if time in that hole-in-the-wall would make her re-think her position. They wouldn't kill her. No, not when they could use her for work and bait. She would be bait for Harry. At first she'd worried he'd run in there on a rash decision, get himself hurt trying to save her. Now, she wished he would.
____________________________________________
She clutched the rolled blanket, the metal plate, the plastic goblet. These were her only provisions now, these were her life. She took her place on the only empty bunk, a top one. There was no ladder.
She'd been snuck through camp in the dead of night, as if she had gone during the day she would conspire with the others for a break out. The night would obviously prevent her from doing so. Obviously.
The nine other girls in the small wooden shack were breathing deeply; sleep claiming them from the toil of the day. She pushed her only possessions onto the wood plank that was her bed and pulled herself onto it as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb the others. She quelled the urge to cry out at the pain that ripped through her tapered back, her newly repaired arms, her thrashed legs. She ignored it, as always, and lay on the wood board, clutching the blanket and plate to her chest. She curled into a ball facing the door and pushed her cup to guard her back from the leaking wall. The rain would be her only other companion that night.
________________________________________
The work was endless, meaningless. Her muscles strained and protested the weight applied upon them as she transported the box of supplies from broom sling to the kitchens. There was no reason they couldn't have flown strait to the tent's back door. Except to make them work while they shot hexes at them for target practice. The punishment for dropping your crate was ten lashes. She had thirty-five. The extra was because he could.
________________________________________
The rain pounded away, turning the dirt into mud, the puddles into lakes. The sky was an endless grey, a color that permeated the senses, tearing away every happy thought and blowing it into the stormy wind. Or that could have been the Dementors.
________________________________________
She could count the days again, if she wanted to. But it didn't matter. They were all the same, only the work changed. Some days she lugged boxes, some days she made food, some days she dug graves for the dead. Others, she was taken back to the main cabin and questioned. Would the pain ever cease?
________________________________________
Cindy asked her yesterday why she never talked. She'd sat right there, on the chair next to her, sewing the cloaks for the Death Eater's, chattering away about her husband, her little boys, both of whom were in the camp next to them. Then she'd asked her about her life, asked about her age, her family, her likes. But she hadn't answered; it was an interrogation, just like the rest. Cindy hadn't been deterred; she'd gone right along, talking away.
She dug Cindy's grave today.
_________________________________________
The night swallowed her steps as the mud sucked at her bare feet. She hadn't opted for her only pair of shoes, not wanting to ruin them any more than they already were. She didn't care, really, if she was caught. It didn't matter. So she walked along, while the world slept and ran her fingers along the harsh metal gates that separated the boy's camp from theirs. She looked for a while, trying to find differences, something that could trip the cord of endless monotony. But there were none. Exactly the same.
_________________________________________
Tonight, she sat in the mud, the freezing earth seeping into her clothing. She stared and stared over at the boy's camp, searching, searching. She didn't know what she was searching for, but she would know when she saw it.
_________________________________________
She saw it, saw him. He just stood there, looking at her from the other side of the fence before he turned and ran, ran as fast as he could, slipping in the mud and falling, pushing himself back up and keeping on.
She envied his fear.
_________________________________________
He came back the next night. He stood there, waiting as if she would call to him, call his name, ask him for a cup of tea. But that was ridiculous. She didn't even know who he was. He left.
_______________________________________
He didn't come the next night. Or the next. But he did on the third. She congratulated herself for counting the days.
He walked forward, a little closer, a little closer. All she could see was darkness, tall, black, darkness. She waited for him to approach the fence so she could see his eyes. He didn't. She stood in the rain after he left, her fingers growing numb on the metal fence. She wondered why the alarms didn't sound.
_______________________________________
The days no longer mattered. They were merely some time to get through until the grey turned into a darker grey, a choking grey. The grey turned to black. Inky black. The black that swallowed dreams, if she had any to share with the starving night.
When the girls had obtained that quiet rhythm, she would leave then, during the changing of the guard. The mud would threaten to tell her secrets, but she wouldn't allow it. She would run, run, just to wait, wait. He would come. If it took a day, a week, he would come. They would stay there, staring. The distance was safe, the distance was cruel. How could they bring harm if they knew not of the other's identity?
But it wasn't enough. Not anymore.
Her thoughts begged him to come forth, her mind wishing he would hear. But he was deaf against the pounding of the rain, the thunder of the silence between them.
_______________________________________
He was closer tonight. She could see his silhouette against the agonizing sleet. Did he live? Was she simply imagining him? A crack broke the silence and he looked around, ran. He turned back, looked at her where she stood, frozen. A wave of his hand. Go. He was telling her to go. The crack had come from her side. They knew she was gone.
______________________________________
The next night she was more careful, looking about to see if she was followed.
He was there, standing where he always did, in the midst of all that mud, a lone figure in the mire. She clenched the fence, as always, letting it dig into her pink skin. The wind was rough tonight, pulling at her dirty clothes.
He walked toward her. Her breath caught, held.
He slowly came into view, his silhouette turning into a figure. And then he was there, standing right in front of her.
"Hermione."
His deep voice said only that single word. It was an acceptance, an offer. She looked into his eyes.
She fled.
______________________________________
XOXO
RynStar15