She wakes with a start from the depths of sleep, instantly alert and aware of . . . something. She doesn't know what has woken her but knows that something is amiss. The silence of the house presses down on her as she strains her senses to the limit, seeking for the source of her unease.

A sound breaks the darkness; a muffled howl torn from a sore and rasping throat. Then, all is silent once more.

Slipping from between the sheets of her bed, she makes her way across the cluttered floor of her room, stepping over piles of books and papers with cat-like grace, taking up her wand from the chair where it was carelessly thrown some hours before.

Opening her door she makes her way stealthily down the hallway, relying on night vision and her knowledge of the house to guide her footsteps. All seems quiet and she hesitates, not convinced within herself that she ever really heard the cry in the dark.

She pauses, unsure of whether to proceed or return to her dreams. The silence and dark are thick and oppressive around her as she scans the empty hall. Again, the choked cry sounds, calling her onwards until she comes to a halt facing a shut and forbidding door.

She has never entered this room. To her knowledge no-one has except its owner. Summoning her courage, she pushes gently on the door which swings open with a whisper, just wide enough to let her slip through the doorway.

The room is dark, she can only make out vague shapes in the sepia toned moonlight edging in around the curtained window.

"Lumos Minimus" she whispers

A faint light begins to glow from the end of her wand as she peers around, hunting for the source of the cries she has heard.

Blankets and pillows are strewn about the room as if by a maelstrom. The bed is empty, the body that should be sleeping peacefully is absent.

Stepping forward she makes out a bundle of blankets on the floor at the foot of the bed.

He is there, huddled within the blankets which wrap him like a shroud, his face is turned to the wall and, even from this distance, she can tell that he is shaking.

Moving closer, her gaze fixed on him, she stumbles over some of the abandoned bedclothes, alerting him to the presence of another.

He freezes. If he doesn't move, doesn't attract attention, maybe the horror will pass him by. Maybe this time he will be left alone. Maybe this time there will be no pain.

A terrified whimper breaks through his tightly clenched teeth, bubbling up from deep inside him where still lives the frightened little boy [Please Daddy, don't hit. . .I'll be good, I promise.

She stretches out one hand to touch him, to reassure him of her benign intent

"Sirius? It's me, Hermione."

She reaches around to cup his chin with her hand, gently turning his head towards her.

His face is drawn and white, eyes screwed shut, and his teeth are ground so tightly together she wonders they don't break. Another childlike whimper leaves his mouth and his body shakes with his fear.

"Sirius. Look at me. It's Hermione."

Something in her soft voice breaks through the veil of horror that surrounds him. He forces his eyes open and she gasps when his eyes meet hers.