Sadly, the mystical world of Harry Potter is not mine to own, only mine to borrow. This is only my second fanfic, but I have high hopes for it. Please let me know how i'm doing, it's greatly appreciated. Not DH compliant. AU.
This is a dark fic. If you are looking for fluff, and happiness, go somewhere else. This is not a story about sex, or love. (well, not completely.) This is a story about hate, prejudice, and addiction. This is a story about torture.
"Bittersweet? No, just bitter, the taste of your tongue.
Words you can't have back, so they linger."
― Coco J. Ginger
It was nearly nightfall, the sky outside was a deep navy, and the faint shine of the first stars were beginning to dot the horizon. It was a beautiful night, not a cloud in the sky, and the moon hung low, with a sweet, ivory glow. Beyond the sound of the breeze, the faint chirping of crickets, beyond the sounds of the night, there was a faint whisper, the rustle of a cloak on dry leaves. In the darkness, not even a shadow hinted at the presence of a man, no, nothing but the sound - a sound so faint you might miss it, if you weren't expecting it - of his cloak, scraping softly against the earth. There was no sound of footfall, his feet seemed weightless, no, not a sound but his cloak.
She was expecting it, searching for it with all her might. She was entirely visible, though barely so, beneath the bush in which she was hiding, her dark, unruly curls piled on top of her head, still damp from her shower, and her pale, ivory legs bare in her night shorts. Her wand was left uselessly on her bedside table, no time to grab it as she ran from her attacker. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, and her pale knees were marred with scrapes, but she did not move a muscle. Instead, she listened, waited for the whisper of a cloak to alert his whereabouts, waited for her chance to run. She was brave, and her instincts told her that if she were caught, she would die. And she would now allow herself to die.
At last, she heard the sound she had been waiting for, several yards to her left, and she didn't give it another thought. Her Gryffindor courage took control, and she sprinted, her bare feet barely touching the ground. She ran nearly a quarter-mile, before she let herself slow, gasping in relief at her narrow escape. Sweaty curls were loose around her face, and she exhaled slowly, creeping towards her bedroom window to collect her wand and her bag. She'd have to leave her current hiding spot earlier than she expected, she thought with a pang, before climbing inside stealthily.
Hermione Granger had been on the run for nearly a year, and this was all but second nature to her. After Ron's capture, Harry had refused to allow her to stay with him, refusing to put another of his closest friends in danger, and while noble, Hermione still resented him deeply for it. Instead of doing something useful for the war, she was trapped in half a life, running from place to place to escape the persecution of her blood.
They'd found her after only 2 weeks this time, she noted, which made her nervous. She hadn't been ready, which was a mistake. Constant vigilance was the only way she'd survive this war. Once in her room, she grabbed her beaded bag, filling it with the things she hadn't unpacked, and tucking her wand into the pocket of her shorts.
Next to her wand, on her beside table, was a photo in a beautiful steel frame. She took a moment to trace her fingers over the man in the picture, a tear escaping her before she could stop it. Ron, in all his glory, Gryffindor robes and a smile on his face. The picture was laughing at something, and his eyes were sparkling with life. His red hair was rustling in the light breeze, with that one curl right beside his left ear she teased him for. He looked just as she had remembered him.
When Ron's body had been found, something inside her had died. She had always assumed, without doubt, that she would one day marry the youngest Weasley son. His hotheaded temper, while infuriating, had stolen her heart years ago. Now that he was dead, murdered, she was empty. It wasn't easy losing your best friend, and it was even harder losing one best friend, and watching another risk his life time and time again.
She half expected to see news of Harry's death, every morning she both dreaded and awaited the front page story announcing his demise. She never allowed herself to fear for her own death, she knew she was too clever, too fast, for any of the Death Eaters that Voldemort sent after her. 12 escapes and she had bested them each time, but rarely had they gotten as close as tonight.
She glanced around the room, making sure she had left nothing, before spinning on the spot, ready to Apparate, when a cold hand grasped her around the wrist.
"Well, little Mudblood, that was fun, but I do have places to be." The familiar, cold drawl made her skin crawl, and in the second it took her to grab her wand, he was already shooting a lazy Disarming spell at her.
A feeling of dread pooled in her stomach, feeling complete and utter defeat, before a pale light shot from his wand, and everything went black.
When she came to, the first thing she registered was darkness. Dark, and cold. The ground beneath her was damp, and hard, and a dull ache in her bones made her shudder, as she recalled the nights events. She didn't have time to be scared, she couldn't allow that. All she could do was calculate, think, plan. She was not going to die, Hermione Granger was not the kind of girl to wallow in despair, she was strong. She was better than the others, she knew this.
She was hungry, and completely parched. Her throat felt so dry, and she tried to judge how long she had been out. Hours? Days? She didn't want to imagine how she had gotten here, and the idea of a Death Eater touching her, carrying her, made her stomach cringe, and her stomach crawl.
She looked around the small room she was in, or rather, the cell. No windows, and it felt strangely like a dungeon. She could hear faint sniffles, as if someone beside her was crying. She stood up silently, glancing around, and checking herself for injuries. There were bruises on her knees from last night, but nothing serious. She had no wand, and her bag was no where in sight.
"Fuck.." She muttered under her breath, and she nearly jumped when she heard a slight laugh behind her. She whipped around, and saw a dark form, coming back into focus, as if he had just lifted a Disillusion charm. The pale skin, the high, aristocratic cheekbones. Her captor was none other than the biggest prat she had ever known, Draco Malfoy.
Reviews are always appreciated.