All around her was black night, and she was running. Thorned plants snagged at her skin and clothes as she passed them, twisted roots sticking up from the ground threatened to trip her, and sharp rocks dug painfully into her naked soles. Still, she ran on, she couldn't stop. Her limbs ached painfully and her muscles cried out for relief; a brief reprieve, to stop for just a moment. But she knew she mustn't, for stopping was certain death.
Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled, and it chilled her to the bone. Was it Fenrir? Please, please no, she begged the empty night. She heard twigs snapping behind her and felt the cool chill of fear snake down her spine – no, she mustn't stop.
All around her the sounds of the forest threatened to be what she feared most; the rustling of the trees was the enemy approaching, a swaying shadow a cloaked stranger, the hooting of an owl a mournful death cry.
The forest was getting thicker; the heavy canopy blocked out all the light of the stars and everywhere was blackness. It pressed in around her, and still she ran on. The uneven ground made her stumble, her weakened limbs trembled and her throat and chest burned. As her nightdress caught on something, her ankle twisted painfully and roots tangled themselves about her feet and legs.
"No!" she cried out as she fell, scraping her palms and knees on the hard earth. It was coming, they were coming, she was going to-
With a jolt Hermione lurched into wakefulness. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, her breathing came in ragged pants. She trembled where she sat as slowly everything came back to her. It was a dream. Just a dream. But the same dream she had had every night since that night; since the night they had come for her.
She hadn't been in a forest or had a chance to run. They had come after dark though, while she was asleep in bed. She'd woken to the sound of movement downstairs and managed to grab her wand before they blasted through her bedroom door, but she'd been sorely outnumbered and outmatched. Why had they come? She didn't know.
She didn't have time to reflect further as it became apparent that she had not woken of her own accord; someone was here. There was a rattling and then footsteps as they approached down the hall. She wrapped her arms tighter about herself where she sat curled into a ball on the floor. The room they kept her in was not small, but it was cold, and damp, and empty. The stone walls and floors were often slick with condensation that seeped into her flimsy dress until she shivered uncontrollably. She supposed she must be underground somewhere, but she had ceased guessing where long ago.
A key rattled in the lock, and then with a wailing screech the heavy door swung in on its rusted hinges. It did not matter particularly who it was. Sometimes she recognised them, sometimes Voldemort himself came, but never did they speak to her, or she to them. She sat in her corner and peered out at them with fearful eyes, while they changed her bucket, checked her shackles, or deposited a tray of stale food at her feet. Today would be no different.
Yaxley hated the dungeons. They were dirty, dank and cold. All the more perfect for a mud-blood, though. His heels clicked on the stone floor as he made his way down the hall towards her cell. He carried a tray of gruel that looked as though it could perhaps have once been last Tuesday's leftovers. Now it had disintegrated into a slushy mess it was impossible to tell.
The keys clinked together on their ring as he slotted one into the ancient lock and turned it, then pushed firmly against the door. It was heavy and the old hinges stuck but it opened as he forced his weight against it. Perhaps one day the hinges would rust up completely, and they'd just have to leave her in there to rot.
He resented having to come down here to feed a mud-blood. What the Dark Lord wanted with her alive he didn't know, but they'd been ordered to feed her, watch her, but under no circumstances talk to her, so that's what he'd do.
As he entered he found her sat in the same corner she always was. Not that she had a choice, the shackles that chained her to the wall were unforgivingly short, lest she get any clever ideas. She was awake, he saw, and her brown eyes were wild behind the mess of hair that fell across her face. What could have frazzled her so, he cared not. Perhaps being down here was finally beginning to break her after all.
She still wore the same nightdress she'd had on when they took her. They'd planned to sneak in while she was sleeping, as the Dark Lord had given specific instructions to take her alive, but when they made it to her room they'd found her both awake and armed. He sneered with distaste at the memory of seeing her standing there, hair falling wildly about her shoulders, arm outstretched and clutching her wand. A filthy mud-blood wielding the weapon of a wizard. And yet…
She had held her own. Macnair had entered first, and he'd had to shout at him to stop him from hexing her into nothingness as she threw curse after curse his way, finally knocking him back with a binding spell that forced him to his knees where she disarmed him without pause. Then she'd turned on him, and it had taken more than your standard Expelliarmus and Body-Bind to subdue her. He'd called on defensive spells he'd not had to use when training with Bellatrix, and the speed with which they'd battled had been almost exhilarating.
Catching himself he regained his sneer and peered down at her with contempt. Such dirty blood did not deserve to wield so much power. She matched his gaze but with none of the hatred or accusation he'd expect. Her eyes burned with something else, something he didn't quite recognise or understand.
Placing the tray on the floor he kicked it over to her with the toe of his boot, then turned to leave. As he reached the doorway, he took one more look over his shoulder before he left, and when he did he found that while her dress was dirty and her sun-starved skin now glowed almost luminously in the dim candlelight, the fragility of her bony frame and unkempt mess of her hair had not changed her. It was in the eyes that she lived, and those were bright and unyielding.
With a derisive snort, he pulled out his wand and transfigured her inedible dinner into a blanket before heaving closed the cell door.
After all, it would be a shame if she died from cold before the real torture began.
Written for: the 'Game of Life' Challenge. Prompts: Yaxley, running, and blanket.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
CC cover image (entitled 'Blanket') courtesy of Dibson Hoffweiler on Flickr.
A/N: How was it!? Was my prompt use a bit tenuous? I don't know much about Yaxley so this was a challenge for sure, hoped he came out believable :) Thanks for reading! (Reviewy?) GG x