Chapter Two
Thoughts for Company

Malfoy Manor
July 28th, 1997
7.00 am

Hermione sat cross legged on the cold cement flooring of the dungeons at Malfoy Manor.

She had been awake for quite some time and was already rather bored. She smiled at the thought that despite everything that had happened- despite being relentlessly tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange last night (or was it earlier today?)- She still had the audacity to feel bored.

She didn't remember everything that had happened a while ago, and she figured that it was her brain trying to suppress the memories, but what she did in fact remember was the sound of Voldemort's most faithful servant, cackling in such a disgustingly high pitch that had there been any glass in the dungeon, it would have surely smashed.

She flinched when she remembered the murderous woman's evil laughter. It wasn't the Hollywood "Muahaha" that would be suited to an evil overlord; no, when Bellatrix Lestrange laughed, it was a high pitched, maniacal sound. It was the sound that a deranged psychopath would surely make.

Hermione remembered her hair being pulled from her scalp and just to make sure that she hadn't made the memory up- even though part of her secretly wished she had- she felt the back her head and wasn't surprised to feel that the hair was much, much thinner there. So thin, in fact, that it resembled that of a balding old man. Hermione had never thought of herself to be particularly vain, but the loss of her hair had her feeling somewhat mournful, as if she had lost an old friend.

Upon thinking of friendship, the witch started to think about her own friends and if they were all safe.

What if something had happened to Ron? The pain that poked and prodded at her heart had a fresh wave of tears washing over the girl. Hermione loved Ron. If Ron were injured in any way, shape or form, if he were dead- Hermione wouldn't know what to do. Ron was her everything. Sure he could be massive git-slash-prat-slash-twat, but at the same time, he was the sweetest, kindest person she knew.

She already missed much about him. She missed his fiery red hair, the freckles on the end of his nose; she missed his shining blue eyes and his strong arms. She missed the way he would grunt during a game of wizard chess if you tried talking to him and she missed the way he would lighten the mood if things were suddenly too heavy. Ronald Weasley, with his bright hair, was almost reminiscent of a human sun- an analogy that suited him all-too well.

Yes, she missed that red headed git, and she was determined that she would make it back, if for him alone.

She felt her legs becoming too stiff, so she uncrossed them and moved them out in front of her. That small movement caused a jolt of pain to slice through her calf, and she bit her lip as she waited for the ache to die down. Bellatrix hadn't simply used cruico on Hermione. No, Hermione clearly remembered being pinched so hard that she bled (an experience which she didn't want to relive any time soon) and being slapped multiple times; so much so that she found she couldn't touch her own face without it throbbing.

Where her calf hurt was where Bellatrix had seen fit to pinch her and Hermione silently cursed that God-awful woman again.

Sitting in that cold, hard dungeon, there was one thing and one thing only that was clear to Hermione; she needed to escape, and she needed to do it soon; either before Harry and Ron came to save her and risk their necks… or before she died.

A metallic rattling noise cut through the silence and a small bar of artificial light appeared under the door crack at the other side of the room. Hermione swallowed her pride and backed away as far as she could go so as to avoid any unnecessary pain.

She watched closely as a small rectangular bulk interrupted the beam of yellowish light, followed by a dark shadow that stayed there for two seconds, before it flittered away.

The rectangular bulk was still there though, and Hermione was curious to see what it was. But something held her back.

What if they were trying to poison her somehow?

Why would they poison her though? She had heard Bellatix and Lucius before: she was being held hostage. Surely that didn't entail poisoning her?

Maybe they wouldn't kill me with the poison, but the poison could make me wish for death…

Hermione gasped upon thinking that thought and she shivered involuntarily.

While she knew that it wasn't silly to assume that they would poison her; it was absolutely stupid to not even think about investigating the mysterious bulk that had appeared in the space under the door.

Gathering her courage, the witch slowly stood and inched her way over to the bulk. Her thoughts were running rapid, imagining all sorts of unsavory things. She imagined her head being blown off twice, her body spasming in pain five times and she even imagined simply dropping dead on more than one occasion.

She didn't want to die; she still had so much left to do.

She still needed to lift her parents' memories, hunt for Horcruxes with Harry and Ron… and that was when Hermione fell to the floor, her emotions at that time simply too heavy for her to carry.

Harry and Ron… what would they do without her? She had had a plan, she had packed; she had done everything to help them. She had all of the books ready and she had charmed her rucksack with an undetectable extension charm so that it could hold an impossible number of items.

She had sacrificed nearly everything so that she could help Harry.

And now she sat on a cold stone floor in Malfoy Manor of all places, with only her thoughts for company.

Did they miss her? Hermione knew that they would be missing her already; surely they would at least think that something were up. If so, how long would it take for them to find her? She hoped that it wouldn't take too long, because she didn't know how long she could put up with the sleeping on stone floors and the torture that Bellatrix would surely continue giving her.

Her stomach grumbled furiously and she decided that she needed some form of sustenance soon, before she became too empty and started wasting away.

She couldn't let herself become skeletal, because becoming skeletal meant being physically weaker; it meant becoming far too tired and feeling the already cold air that seeped around the dungeons much more harshly.

No, losing what body weight she had was simply out of the question and she silently thanked Mrs. Weasley and the motherly witches' cooking for fattening her up as soon as she had arrived at The Burrow some weeks ago.

Standing up albeit shakily again, she made her way over to the bulk that sat halfway in, halfway out of the room. Peering down, she saw that it was a thick rectangular metallic tray and on it, there was a mushy mixture composing of-from what she could see in the limited light- an odd green looking mush; either peas or cabbage, she wasn't sure and something white-ish brown- maybe a mixture of potatoes and beans.

She tentatively bent down and picked up the tray of mush, not surprised in the slightest that it was so cold it felt like it had been refrigerated for weeks.

That was when she smelt the putrid smell and realized that the ingredients they used to make the mush had already gone off.

They had tried to feed her off-vegetables. That thought alone made her feel nauseas.

It was inhumane, it was gross and it simply shouldn't be done. She could become ill and die; she could catch diseases if her immunity was lowered in this place. Heck, she could die by simply tasting that putrid mush. Feeling disgusted by the indecency of feeding her what resembled pig squalor, she placed the tray back down on the floor under the door and crossed her arms, vowing not to eat anything until they gave her something better.

It was a bold decision at best (and probably a bit stupid) but Hermione figured that they wouldn't try to kill her and if she refused to eat, maybe they would be forced into giving her something slightly better, just to keep her alive.

She became sick of standing so she slowly dropped to the floor, being careful not to hit a sore spot, and softly sat on the ground. She zipped the Harry-sized jacket up and pulled the loose fabric closely around her so that she wouldn't get colder if she fell asleep.

It was then that the light outside switched off and she was bathed in complete darkness yet again.

DMHG

The Burrow
July 28th, 1997

The Burrow had been sapped of any cheerfulness that had decided to remain after most of the group had arrived back safely after the big 'escape'.

When Kingsley had arrived back at The Burrow alone, Ginny had feared the worst. When her fears were confirmed, she had watched as two teenage boys visibly broke in front of her- a sight which she wasn't inclined to see again.

It was in the early hours of the morning when Kingsley had arrived. Ginny had woken up on the same tattered couch she had been sitting on the night before and was surprised to find that she had her head on Harry's shoulder and that his arm was hanging limply over her own shoulders. She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, imagining that they had fallen asleep knowing that they were like this and that they were still together, despite everything.

Of course, this wasn't the truth and Ginny hated lying to anyone, let alone herself.

She took his arm from around her shoulders and he mumbled in his sleep, turning over so that he was facing her. She smiled at him and even risked a small peck on his forehead.

She really, really missed Harry Potter, even if she wouldn't admit it to anyone but herself.

She heard the front door to her home open and a wave of excitement washed through her; it was Hermione! It would have to be!

She jumped up off of the couch, accidentally kicking Harry in the process (who grumbled and swore under his breath) and ran out into the kitchen, her face already hurting from the grin that was spread across it.

What she saw when she got into the kitchen however, was Kingsley talking in low tones to her mother, who had a trembling hand over her mouth and was watching the dark skinned man with wide eyes.

Mrs. Weasley looked about ready to shatter and so Ginny walked over to her, looking at Kingsley questioningly, and placed a comforting arm around her mothers' shoulders.

It was never a nice site to see your very own mother cry, even though it didn't happen much. When it did happen however, Ginny felt a pang at her heart. It was almost as if when her mother felt pain, she somehow felt pain as well.

Kingsley ceased his talking as soon as he saw Ginny enter the kitchen and Ginny noticed that he seemed withdrawn. His face lacked the calm and serene expression that the Order had come to know only too well and in its place was an eerie blankness, one reminiscent of Sirius Black when Ginny had first met him.

That poor man had been living in Azkaban for far too long, and had become withdrawn from the world around him. Sure, he could still talk and use manners like a normal person, but there was something about him, something small that made you think he had already snapped but was waiting…

Ginny pulled herself out of her thoughts with a forceful tug and occupied herself by comforting her mother, who was still on the verge of tears.

That was when another thought occurred to the girl, and she looked from Kingsley back to her mother and again, daring one of them to confirm the worst.

It was a silent question that she asked the man when she looked him in the eyes and when he gave her a barely-there nod, she collapsed to the ground and cried like she had never cried before.

Ginny was a strong girl- it came with having role models like her older brothers, but when something like this happened, when something so horrible and twisted happened such as this; Ginny Weasley cracked, like she always knew she would if the situation ever arose.

So she fell to the tiled floor of The Burrow's kitchen, shuddering violently with tears dribbling down her face. She placed her crossed arms on her knees and rocked back and forth, moaning as if she were in some kind of physical pain.

At the sound of Ginny's distress and Mrs. Weasley's incoherent sobbing, Harry and Ron walked out of the living room together and upon seeing Kingsley standing in the doorway with the two distressed women, the boys already knew what had happened.

Harry's jaw locked in place, his eyes watered and he fiddled with the edge of his jacket. Silently but stiffly, he made his way upstairs, not bothering to comfort anyone else in the room. The light- any remaining happiness- had drained from his features and he already looked like a hollow version of himself. Hollow Harry.

You could distinctly see the way that the gears were turning in his head: he already believed that it was his fault that Hermione wasn't there. If he hadn't agreed to the stupid plan in the first place, if he hadn't given them the hair... she probably still even looked like him. She went not looking like herself, but a completely other person.

Ron was another story altogether, he gritted his teeth and let out one single inhuman sob before he stiffened his shoulders and walked as fast as he could out the door, shoving past Kingsley as hard as he could manage.

It his head, it was Kingsley's fault. He was the protector, he was the one who hadn't done his job right. He was supposed to have brought her home…

A door slammed upstairs and the Weasley twins Fred and George came down hurriedly, accidentally kicking Crookshanks on their way who was having a snooze. The cat meowed indignantly and scurried off, not before slashing at the boys with its claws.

"What happened?" asked Fred who was slightly breathless by this time having just sprinted down a long staircase.

No one answered, but that was confirmation enough for them both.

The boys oddly did the same thing and bit their lips before they continued down into the kitchen and each held one of the women who were still in hysterics.

It was disconcerting to see two such strong women in tears, but they had shoved that feeling aside and were both holding them, trying to soothe what little of the hurt they could.

Everyone handled their grief in different ways, but the pain they felt was the same, for in their minds, Hermione Granger was dead.

It was sometime later that everyone in The Burrow sat in the living room in silence.

Harry had been coaxed from his room by Mrs. Weasley, even though it had taken a good half hour. He still hadn't spoken to anyone and he tended to tear up every now and then, but he never sobbed. He fiddled endlessly with the sleeve of his jacket and kept on crossing and uncrossing his legs, as if his body simply needed to do something.

Ginny had reverted to sniffles, now that she was over the initial shock of her almost-sister's death.

She now sat on the floor beside Fred, holding onto one of Hermione's jumpers that the girl had left behind. She found comfort in the material as it still carried Hermione's scent and some bits of her hair. Ginny did feel a little bit weird holding onto her friend's jacket at first but it comforted her and for that she was very grateful, so she shoved the feeling of creepiness away.

Ron had come back inside only recently and was sitting by himself in a far corner of the room. Ginny had never seen her brother act so strange, but then again, it was to be expected. She knew that he had harbored deep feelings for Hermione and she could only guess at how painful it felt to have his heart breaking.

To her, Ron had always seemed like the strong one, the brother who could become your rock if you needed him to be. Sure, he wasn't all that emotional and didn't handle others' emotions well, but that was because he found it hard to relate to people. Of course, the red-head predicted that that would all change soon; because this was probably the most emotional he had ever been in his whole life.

It was a terrible sight to see at best, watching a teenager who has finally discovered love, break.

She had yet to see him cry, but the distress he felt was so evident if you even gave him a single glance.

Mrs. Weasley had been cooking for the past hour or so, baking as many treats as she could possibly manage. She had cried a tiny bit on Georges shoulder when the boy had gone to comfort her, but had quickly reverted to the kitchen where she had immediately started baking pastries.

Everyone knew that this was the 'Mrs. Weasley' way of coping, and so they didn't question it, they simply let her be.

Ginny offered to help, but the older witch had asked her to go and check on the boys instead.

Ginny hadn't checked on the boys at all.

She knew that more than anything, they would want to be left alone after all, it's what she probably would have wanted too had she been filled with testosterone.

Mr. Weasley sat in the big armchair near the fireplace which was closest to where Ron was sitting on the other side of the room.

Mrs. Weasley had broken the news to him about Hermione's death. He had ran a hand through his thinning hair and had promptly hugged his wife. He had never been awfully close to Hermione, but she was still someone who had been a constant in his life, much like his own children, and her death had hit him hard.

He had spent the day checking on the boys (being another male, they would have some form of understanding between them) , but much like he expected, they didn't really talk.

Harry had simply sat there on the edge of his bed, looking straight ahead and Ron had been much the same way. However Ron did talk, and when he spoke, his voice had been so…emotionless. It stabbed at Mr. Weasley's to hear his son use such a hollow voice and it was in that moment he knew exactly what Ron had felt for Hermione.

Mr. Weasley stood in the doorframe that lead out onto the front porch, looking at his youngest son who sat there with red rimmed eyes and fresh tear tracks trailing down his face. He seemed almost like the embodiment of sadness and Mr. Weasley felt his fatherly instinct reach out and long to wrap itself around his son, just to comfort him in whatever way possible.

His legs eventually lead him forward to where the teenager sat and he sat down beside the boy resting, his palms in his lap. If experience had taught him anything, it was that Ron didn't like to be touched when he was feeling upset.

They both sat there in silence for a short time until he felt Ron shuddering beside him.

He looked over at the boy and saw that his head was down and his shoulders were slumped forward, almost like he was cringing away from a curse or hex.

But Mr. Weasley knew better.

He continued to sit there in silence next to his son and let the shuddering takes its course until Ron became completely still and silent, although continuing to be hunched over.

The man was having a hard time thinking of something to say to his son. He didn't want to approach the topic of Hermione's death, but it was impossible not to. It was the Elephant in the room, so to speak. It was the darkness that fell over them, it was the invisible third person standing between them. Hermione's death was all they couldn't talk about but all they needed to talk about; it was the hardest, most unpleasant thing to do, but it needed to be done. Any idiot could see that.

But Ron surprised him five minutes later by speaking first, lifelessly, still staring at his lap.

"I did love her," he said, taking a deep breath as if to steady himself. "I love her still."

Mr. Weasley nodded, knowing that Ron had harbored at least some feelings for the girl.

He wanted to offer his son some fatherly advice, anything at all that would help him heal, but he was left with nothing. He himself had never felt the feeling of complete hopelessness that only came with losing the one you loved the most. Molly had always been there, right from his time at Hogwarts. She was his first and only love; and she was still right there with him now; in the kitchen, to be exact.

How could he possibly help Ron if he couldn't relate to what his youngest son was going through?

"She's amazing, you know," Ron still sounded hollow and it pained Mr. Weasley to hear that tone (or lack thereof)."I wanted to marry her one day. She'd probably work in the Ministry, working for The Department For The Protection Of Magical Creatures. She would throw herself into her work and she wouldn't stop, but I'd love her anyway. I'd love her no matter what she chose to do."

Mr. Weasley felt that same emotion stab at his chest and the need to comfort his son took over. Carefully, he put an arm around the boy's shoulders and felt a wave of relief wash over him when Ron relaxed and leaned into his father's side.

George sat on the sofa next to Harry and was oddly quiet. It was too soon to joke and even if he did manage to make one, no one would laugh.

He watched as his mother walked into the room and sat down on the arm chair next to his father and pick up her knitting.

No one really knew what to say.

They were all in the room with the topic of Hermione floating over their heads like a foreboding cloud, and no-one knew how to breach the subject.

Kingsley had left earlier that day, excusing himself so that he could return to the ministry and report the death of Mad-eye Moody.

In George's opinion, it was sad that the death of Hermione hit them harder than the death of Mad-eye, but in a way, it was only to be expected. No one really knew the paranoid auror like they knew Hermione Granger. She was a sister to them all; a part of their family. If you imagined a family to be a giant tree, it was like one of the said tree's major branches being severed.

Of course, a tree's limbs could grow back and that thought alone made George try to re-think his analogy.

It was safe to say that for the most part, the Weasley household was in mourning, and everyone knew things would be this way for quite some time.

DMHG

Malfoy Manor
July 28th, 1997
8:13 pm

Pain.

Bone crippling, unrelenting pure torture immobilized her body which was thrashing around uncontrollably without her consent. She could feel the hard cement underneath her, she could feel her nails digging into her palms, drawing blood, but most of all she could feel that stabbing pain that made her feel like each and every one of her nerve endings were on fire.

She spasmed out of control and the pain only stopped for a second until it resumed when a cruel voice screamed "Crucio!"

Hermione couldn't breathe, for it hurt too much and her throat was dry from screaming. She couldn't talk and when she tried, her voice came out in a humiliating croak.

Bellatrix ended the curse with a quick flourish of her wand and she stepped over Hermione's bleeding body, staring down in glee at the witches tear stained face.

"Has the Mudblood broken yet?" she asked, wiping a stray piece of wild hair from her pallid face.

Hermione couldn't move to acknowledge that she heard the brutal witch for her body was still twitching uncontrollably as the remnants of the curse slowly leaked from her system. It was a horrible position to be in, as Bellatrix always expected an answer and when she received none, she would force it out.

"Not going to speak?" she asked Hermione with a false sweet tone. She cocked her head to the side as she examined Hermione's cuts and bruises from that short distance. Hermione felt the tip of the witches' wand prod at her face and she felt the tiniest inkling of pain stab at her cheek. It was the place where Hermione had scratched accidentally whilst she hadn't been in control of her body.

Hermione still didn't answer the woman- because she couldn't- and instead braced herself for the next bout of torture.

"So be it then," said Bellatrix as she raised her wand, pointing it directly at Hermione's chest. "Cruci-,"

But the curse was cut short as a loud band was heard from the direction of the staircase behind the door where the light suddenly flickered.

Bellatrix's black eyes widened and she flittered away from Hermione, to the door where the bushy-haired witch heard the woman say one word that made her blood run chillingly cold.

"Master."

You couldn't ever doubt the presence of Lord Voldemort; he was like a giant snake in a cage filled with mice. Even with your back turned, you would still be able to feel that prickling sensation as it travelled up your spine to the back of your neck where it would stay, warning you that there was someone or something there that was dangerous and was going to hurt you…

No, you couldn't ever mistake the presence of Lord Voldemort.

Hermione felt as her body stiffened further and closed her eyes in a moment of pure fear, not wanting to see the eyes of the monster. She could almost certainly feel his eyes watching her, trailing over her as he walked closer to his victim.

Hermione trembled, hoping that this wouldn't be one of the last moments that she ever lived.

Then she heard the sound of his voice, and it was almost like someone had thrown a pail of ice water over her head. Coldness trickled down her spine and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Far too petrified with fear to open her eyes, she listened to the cold, calculating voice of a killer.

"So this is the Mudblood," his voice was high pitched and breathless, so much so that it simply didn't seem human.

"Yes, Milord we thought she would be of use," Bellatrix fawned to her master, and Hermione imagined the maniac bowing down to the horrible man.

"So it seems," Hermione felt the feeling of a cold fleshy mass on her face and she resisted the urge to be sick. She knew that it was him; she just knew that it was him who put his disgusting, dirty foot on her face. He'd probably recently stepped in the blood of his victims, heck, he could've stepped in anything, and now that foot, was on her face. "Keep her here, Bellatrix. Do with her whatever you please… we'll need to lure Potter here with her."

"Of course, Milord."

With that, Hermione felt the foot leave her face and she dared to open her eyes.

What a quick meeting…far too quick, in fact…

She saw the corner of a black robe flitter out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't have any time to think about it because suddenly Bellatrix was in her field of vision, standing directly over the top of her.

A cruel smile was plastered over her face and her maniacal hair went in every which-way.

She licked her lips and hissed in an awful voice that Hermione would never forget for as long as she lived, "Crucio."

Draco Malfoy never saw himself as a particularly emotional person. No, he rather saw himself as a sensible person, one who could quite easily take care of their emotions by locking them away in different vaults in his head. He didn't bother them much, and they didn't bother him either.

But for some reason tonight, as he lay down in his bed, his emotions threatened to break through the carefully erected walls of his heart and mind.

He felt much like he had only a few of months ago when he had helped the Deatheaters gain entry to Hogwarts. That night, he felt like a robot, doing only what he knew would save the life of his parents.

He was on autopilot as he walked down those constricting stone corridors. He felt like the breath was being squeezed from his body as the horror he felt inside threatened to break loose, but he simply kept on going.

He imagined himself as a soldier of sorts, and in a way, he already was. He had taken the Dark Mark and now, despite everything, he was one of them.

He had swallowed his fear and let the Deatheaters loose. He was the reason Dumbledore was dead.

He may not have cast the curse, but had Draco not done what he did, had he not cowered from the Dark Lord, a man may still be alive today. Not a particularly sane man, but a man nonetheless.

Draco felt the familiar taste of bile rise in his throat and he swallowed it, hoping that he wouldn't start vomiting again. After the events on the Astronomy Tower, Draco- although too ashamed to admit it- had vomited many times that same night.

He closed his eyes again and rolled onto his side in his satin sheets. He pulled the covers up to his chin and exhaled, willing himself to fall asleep and just ignore the sound of the torturous screams emanating from the dungeons below his bedroom.

He knew who it was and he was horrified that she was being kept a prisoner in his house.

She, the brains of the Golden Trio, the Mudblooded know-it-all, was being kept a prisoner in his own home. He didn't particularly care for her, but hadn't she been tortured enough already? Even she deserved a break.

He covered his ears with his hands and concentrated on counting.

Counting was something that his mother had taught him to help calm his nerves. It was part of the reason as to why he was so good at Arthrimancy. Numbers weren't like anything else in his life; everything else kept changing, his relationships, his family, school, lessons, absolutely everything to do with his life was constantly changing and sometimes, sometimes he felt like screaming for some sense of control. Numbers gave him that control. Numbers were unchanging; they stayed the same no matter what you did. Four would always be four and eight would always be eight.

He timesed the numbers together, he added the numbers together and he eventually took most of them off so that he could count into the negatives.

Eventually, he drifted to sleep, the screams of Hermione Granger no more than a dull ring in his ears.

A/N: I hope that you guys are satisfied with the length of this chapter and I hope that this story isn't dragging. When I read back through it I pretend to be you guys… and I can't really picture the scenes that I've written even though I had an image in my head the whole time.

Also, I'm not particularly happy with the way that I have portrayed Ginny. She seems to be a bit too weak but I honestly don't know how to 'toughen her up'.

Once again, thank you all for reading!
Oh one more tiny little thing: If anyone is interested in Beta-ing this story, then please do PM me and we can discuss the matter :)