Chapter Two- Stolen

A/N: Hello! Me again! Warning: this is a bit dark, so if you don't like darkish stories, don't read it… but you probably will anyway. So, um yeah… … enjoy….

Disclaimer: I never have, and never will, own HP.

Tomorrow's Dust: I've looked at it myself and I realised it IS horrible to read bold print, so I've changed it on Chapter One. And if you have checked out Evil Has Two Sides, you can be certain I'll be redoing them too. As for whom this person is, you'll find out in this chappie….

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I rose, my movement slow and deliberate, from my bed; blinking, befuddled, into the sharp light streaming through the slit in my curtains. The rays were pointed and viciously jagged, slicing into me every second I remained in their wake; the light creating deep slashes in my skin. I snorted, as I needed any more scars, I already had enough… no, I chastised myself sternly, don't go down that road, Hermione. (A/N: See? Told ya.) My intelligible hiss followed the clattering and curses from my father in the kitchen below me. I avoided him as much as possible- we both preferred this, with the exception of when his hatred of me consumed him and he could no longer control it- but now I would have to face him, like I did every morning.

The swearing continued as I descended the stairs, a hollow wave washing through my chest- the only thing I could do to acknowledge the agonising pain that I should have felt, indicating that I was, indeed injured in some form- with each minute loss of altitude, as I floated down them with soundless elegance that I was… not exactly grateful, but close enough. Without emotion, I stepped into the kitchen.

It was filthy; to put it mildly, the sink overflowing with grime encrusted plates that were beyond saving, the rubbish was pouring from the bin, seeping over the sides and flooding the floor. Scraps of decaying food lying abandoned on the soiled countertops. The scene was no surprise to me; the kitchen had once been immaculate, everything in its place and spotlessly clean, almost like a hospital; every object white and sparkling, radiating care and affection. Now all it radiated was neglect and a putrid smell.

My father had kept it, and the rest of the house in pristine condition, he had cared for his surroundings.

That was before the drinking started.

The attacks had begun quickly after, and my home fell into disrepair; at the start, I attempted to retain the standard my father had kept it in, but when the numb stupor had engulfed me, it became irrelevant, and I soon forgot.

Our eyes met as I entered; Rogers eyes were cold and cruel, his face distorted by the hideous, expectant leer pulling at his lips. Mine face was smooth as granite, impassive, giving no emotion as it always was; I didn't know how to do anything else. My stone eyes flicked to the silent form leaning on the foodless pantry door; my twin brother, Charlie, was immobile, as usual. He had watched countless of my father's beatings- but he did nothing; what could he do anyway? We had made vows never to pull others into this murderous web; once you were caught, you never escaped.

He nodded, equally emotionless- it was a perfected skill, this not feeling, and we had both acquired it; Charlie was never attacked the way I was, but his version was probably equally atrocious, something that he did not wish to share with me or anyone else. I only knew that something happened between him and Roger because I had heard his strangled sobs when he believed I was asleep; his screams when he was reliving the nightmare that, like one that haunted me, occurred ever time he closed his eyes. And, of course, his fearful distance he kept from his father; an unconscious reflex that I did too.

"What happened?" I breathed as I passed him; Charlie looked at me with flat, dead eyes- he'd obviously been hoping that I wouldn't notice the fist shaped bruise on the left side of his face.

"Nothing." His empty voice was lowered like mine, so that our father would not hear.

I nodded; I knew how he had got that bruise, I already had before I asked him.

"Oi!" My father spat without warning, breaking our eye contact. "Get over here, bitch!"

I turned wordlessly, reaching the oven that my father stood beside.

"Cook!" He ordered; disgust and spit spattering me. I did so without protesting, while Roger lounged in his chair- the only one still intact- and Charlie remained as statuesque as before.

The food I was frying was for one person only-naturally. Father hated Charlie and I, so why would he bother providing sustenance for us?

I placed the remaining intact plate in front of my parent- if you could call him that- and turned to leave; my brother and me would find food somewhere; there were always sympathetic old ladies who would give scraps to 'orphans' like the two of us. That was my morning routine; cook food and get the hell out before Roger could decide to hurt me or Charlie, and it normally worked; he would be too consumed with eating to bother about the two of us slipping away. But not today.

I was halfway through the doorway, Charlie on my heels, when there was an ear-splitting crash as the plate shattered on the once white floor tiles.

"Filth!" My father roared, neither of us even flinched; we had seen the maniacal glow in his eyes too many times before be intimidated by this man, who would cower any other child with his madness. We also knew what would happen next. "Vermin!" He slapped me hard, my head snapped sideways with the force; my cheek throbbed- not in the normal, painful way; it was almost a heartbeat kind of pulse- the numbness living up to its name.

He grasped my shoulders and threw me into the countertop- I felt no pain, as usual, only the familiar hollow sensation- I slumped, glassy eyes, watching as my father's iron toed boots thump towards me. My vision blackened as one collided with my nose, breaking it instantly, blood splattering my t-shirt and drenching the nearby area, including the prized shoes.

Father snarled; "Crap, my shoes! You bitch!" he kicked me again, this time in my stomach, I involuntarily doubled over, even though I felt nothing- my body was reacting to the pain I could not feel. He stepped away from me, towards my brother, who had remained in the doorway, his eyes dark; he was retreating to his 'sanctuary', where he could forget; it would be him next, so he was preparing himself. Do not judge Charlie for not doing anything, I had forced him swear the first time he had seen this happen to not involve himself, what could he do anyway? Only hurt himself -and, consequently, me- in the process.

Father leaned forwards, so his sneering face was only centimetres from Charlie's- my brother's eyes were blank; he had already left the miniscule kitchen far behind- just like I had wanted him to.

"Leave, you insolent piece of shit, now!" Father growled, his voice holding nothing but menace. Charlie remained still.

"DON'T IGNORE ME!" Roger roared in Charlie's ear. My twin stayed silent. Roger's control snapped at his son's silence; his fist rose and crashed into my brother's face. Both of us had identical broken noses, and neither of us could feel the agony we should have. Charlie's eyes cleared, he looked past my father, at me. I nodded, resigned; both of us didn't have to suffer- it was me father wished to hurt, not my brother. His eyes clouded once more.

Charlie left.

"And I'll deal with you later!" my father screamed after my twin's retreating back. If I could have, I would have been curious; what was it that my father did to Charlie that he didn't want me to know? He knew what father did to me, so why couldn't he tell me what happened to him? Maybe it was worse than this, the beatings I received; maybe I didn't want to know.

Roger Granger turned his attention back to me.

His grin was wickeder than it had been before; what was he planning? Again, I almost wished I could feel curiosity, but the desire soon passed- I would be dead by now if I could still feel; by my father's hand or my own. Father stepped towards me and knelt so he could tower over my face, blocking out the flickering light of the a single, shade less bulb suspended from the cracked ceiling.

"It seems, you worthless bitch," Roger sneered down at me, not hesitating to spit in my lifeless face. "That you don't feel the pain I so enjoy giving you." So he had noticed. "So we'll have to change that, won't we?"

I didn't answer.

"I think I'll try something a little different, shall I?" I felt almost uneasy at the insane smirk plastered to his hideous face.

The feeling grew as he rose, put one leg over my body and sat down again; so he was straddling me, the evil smile still stretching his lips.

Oh, god… Please, oh please no…

He unzipped his jeans."See how you like this, bitch." He whispered in my ear as he lent over me. His cold, heartless laughter shook through me.

Ten seconds later I started screaming.

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A basement, cold and dank, the only window is barred, rain trickling down it, leaving semi-translucent trials behind the drops, like a thousand tears. Like the tears that roll down the cheeks of the teenager lying lifelessly on the black floor in the farthest corner from the door, her eyes brimming with liquid that overflows them, dripping onto her torn shirt.

My numbness has deteriorated; I'm trying desperately to reclaim it; but I cannot. For six years, I have felt nothing, no emotion whatsoever; now it is returning to me- the fear, the hate, it washes through me in limitless waves, breaking over my head, showering me with the emotion I have suppressed for so long. Most of all the pain; every slap, every punch, every slice of the blade I have ever endured for six long years that I have never felt, I am feeling now. It is agonising, unbearable; every inch of my body hurts, especially below my stomach, between my legs.

I know the reason for that pain. More tears- understandably foreign to me after a separation of so long- spring to my eyes as I recall what happened that caused my precious numbness to be lost to me. I don't want to think about it, it hurts- even though Roger Granger beat me, took pleasure in my early suffering, then frustration at my lack of reaction after the first few months, I had still believed that some part of him, a miniscule snippet, cared about me, loved me like he had before my tenth birthday. But now, I realise how stupid, how naïve I was; he didn't care worth a shit about me, I mean, my own father did… did, things to me- how could a real father do that to their daughter? No, he wasn't my father anymore in the slightest; he lost that right when he did that to me.

An involuntary sob racked my chest; the bastard had taken all the good things from my life and incinerated them- my future, my emotion, my brother and now my innocence.

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A/N: Oh, my god, I hate the bastard, why the hell did I write this story?! I would say, 'hope you enjoyed it' but that's kind of sick. Would you lot out there understand if I said hope you like it? 'Cos I don't mean like THAT, know what I mean? I'd be surprised if you did know, because I don't, and it's me saying it.

Review? Please?

GP