Crescent

Hermione Jane Granger was, contrary to popular belief and opinion, not just Harry Potter's second best friend and snotty know-it-all. She was a lioness, posing at the precipice, majestic – hair crackling with energy when excited – and in possession of the ability to analyse any situation at any time. Hermione was curious, and for her curiosity to be satisfied, she would delve into the pages of the whispering, dry books of her beloved libraries. She was insatiable in her pursue of knowledge.

Hermione Granger was no beauty, but her brown eyes with flecks of gold and her wild, wild hair had a grace in themselves. With her smile and her laugh she would enthral them; with her tongue and her shrewd mind she would bewilder them.

Lord Voldemort watched her, watched her – ever patient – from the back of your childhood hero's mind. (Not so innocent, after all…) He watched with mounting excitement the beam of her smile and the bubble of her laughter. Voldemort knew not what Harry Potter saw in his red-haired Ginerva (except perhaps the boy's own mother). Voldemort knew, ever near omniscient, that Hermione would be the key, for she could not be broken in such ways as torture. He observed her shameless respect for her ancestry – filthy muggles – with those jeans and tops; flattering, some call them.

Lord Voldemort would watch, amused, as Harry Potter's world crumbled the day Hermione Granger disappeared. He would watch as the Chosen One sought comfort in his love's arms and would be thrilled by how they'd lost their primary source of logic (though he, grudgingly, had to admit that Potter's own intelligence wasn't as bad as Snape had loudly proclaimed ("Arrogant, foolish boy. Just like his father.")).

Her room – it was no cell – was shaped as a crescent. It was comfortable enough. Hermione Granger was not to be broken by such mere means as torture, she would break herself. And when she had interpreted and analyzed and concluded that there was no way out – he'd project images of her friends to her every day – she would fall, mind unbroken but hope crushed.

Then he would come, he, the Dark Lord. He'd smile as she cried and grew wet at the sound of another human voice. He knew his eyes would burn red as she shivered – back curved – at his touch of her arm. Voldemort would hiss quietly to Nagini, and the giant snake would encircle her waist and flicker her forked tongue against Hermione's soft skin.

When Voldemort would take his leave she would hate herself for wanting him to stay, rushing into the bathroom and scrub with cold water till her skin flushed red. Touching herself with the sponge, all the same.

The next day her hopeful horrors – those nightmares your naughty mind secretly wishes would come true – would occur. Those dreams of men and women who blends with the darkness, synonymous with fear and pain and hurt. They would tie her to the bed that had been hers for weeks and not even her mind would rationalize the sensation of pain and pleasure mixed.

But not yet. He would have to wait, but waiting was not unfamiliar to the Dark, Dread Lord.

The wait would only make the experience itself more enjoyable.

The night was cold, damp and foggy. Ron, Harry, Ginny and Hermione sat huddled in front of the fireplace. They had found this cottage in the midst of a vast forest in Normandie, where it was rumoured that Rowena Ravenclaw had spent her last days. Save for Nagini and the Dark Lord himself, this was the only Horcrux that was yet to be destroyed. Gryffindor had long since been eliminated.

They said nothing, for they had nothing left to say. They had small-talked incessant chatter the first few months of their travels, but they had grown tired. Harry was sinking deeper into a depression as what he had to do finally had its impact on him, and it was Ginny's job to cheer him up. Ron was continually fed information from Harry's reoccurring "visions" and was planning where it'd be safest to go next. And Hermione … Hermione was doing all the research, brewing the potions that they might feel the need for sometime in the future and target-practising her curses. Harry would find them in the books, and, having so much power and such an aptitude for it, would master them first and best. Hermione was second, Ron fell down bottommost.

Hermione was optimistic on the outside, bubbling with laughter at some joke Ron would come with. She liked Ron, he was so different from herself. She could see herself marrying him someday, if they won this war. If. On the inside Hermione grew more and more anxious. They'd never make it. Harry was a powerful sorcerer, but the Dark Lord had so much more experience, and no great moral fibre that stopped him from blatantly using the Dark Arts. Harry, however, did, and it could very well end up being his downfall.

Hermione did not want to die, but she'd sacrifice herself for whatever cause she truly worked for and believed in. She had decided this a long time ago.

It was dark and she was out for a short walk when they ambushed her. Hermione tried to scream, but it did no good. Lord Voldemort watched, amused, as Harry Potter's world crumbled the day Hermione Granger disappeared. He watched as the Chosen One sought comfort in his love's arms, unable to comprehend his loss, and blaming himself for everything.

She did not know for how long she had been captured. Time passed slowly here, and the air was thick with tension, nervousness. The only thing that she knew for sure was that the Order had surely given her up for dead – with the exception of Harry and Ron, perhaps – and that they were not finished with her. A part of her, the lonely but Gryffindor part, wished they weren't. Wished they weren't finished so that she could hear voices other than her own, feel skin other than her own, and, defiantly enough, spit in their faces and refuse to give in. She'd never tire of it. Ever.

Her room, she had noticed the first time she'd been allowed to see upon capture, was in the shape of a crescent. She knew not why. It was this that kept her from insanity – the opportunity to use her intelligence on something else than escape, as they'd surely want her to think. That would have driven her insane. After having slept in the bed – which she was sure was not customary for a prisoner – seven times, this turned into a game of figuring out the puzzles of the Dark Lord's mind and actions.

Every once in a while said Dread Lord would send her images of her friends being tortured and dying. She knew they were usually false – poor Neville set aside – but she'd still stare blankly at the wall. She stopped crying three visions ago. Crying was useless.

What must have been a month later, she sat huddled, stroking her arms and sick of loneliness. She was muttering to herself, obscure philosophies and laws flowing from between her lips, anything to hear a voice, to stop herself from going insane. Finally, though, she thought she had figured out why she had been put in this room.

She lay asleep in the bed when He came to see her. He brushed some hair away from her face, but she did not stir. Squatting, he hissed her name, red eyes glinting with amusement.

That seemed to do the trick. Her eyes flew open and her hands went for the tangled blanket, pulling it up and attempting to cover her naked self. Carefully, cautious, her eyes sought out the source of the sound, but its supposed origin of birth was empty.

She knew better than to be fooled though. Tentatively, she let her eyes scan the room. There, at the end of the room, she could make out the silhouette of a thin, tall man with glowing red eyes.

With movements as quick as a snake's, the man was beside her. Cool breath fanned her face, and unnaturally long, white fingers that were so cold they seemed to absorb warmth, rather than radiating it, were stroking her cheek and neck in a mockery of concern.

"Hermione," he whispered.

She shivered.