A/N: Thank you to all of those who put an alert on the story, reviewed it, or simply just read it. It means so much to me. Just a reminder, this is a short story I've completed, and feedback from you all will shorten the time between uploads.
Let's go, Day 1.
The foreboding clock announced that it was four in the morning. As Ron lay on the couch, Hermione was desperate to keep moving, needing to do something, anything. She returned into the room that she had woken in and found that it was a bedroom. A tiny bathroom was visible through a door on the opposite side. A single mattress rested upon the dusty floor, allowing the place to look more lonely than ever.
She fell on the stiff mattress, needing to collect her thoughts by reflecting on what she heard and gathering her mass of logic to find a solution. She ferociously ignored that she would die in five days, refusing to believe it. Hermione had survived a war; she wasn't going to give up now.
Her muscles were screaming at her to rest but she couldn't. She returned to the main room, hoping to find something in the kitchen cabinets. Her search culminated in an apple and a decrepit goblet full of water she had run from the tap. Sitting upon the floor, she resolutely stared at the man on the couch, "We have to find a way out of here."
He stubbornly refused to meet her gaze. The only sound was the crunch of her apple as she waited for his response.
"How can you be so flippant about this? We're trapped in a house, together, and told we will die in five days!" His outburst shocked her into silence. He threw a scowling look at her, "Just get away from me."
Resentment rose like vomit in her throat, "You'd rather wait for someone to come rescue us, I suppose? You're pathetic." She pierced him with a glare before returning to the bedroom, her anger completely vanishing any energy she had left.
A strange, shuffling sound extracted Hermione from her slumber. She blinked, and the haze revealed a vibrant spread of red. How strange, she thought, what's Ginny doing in my bedroom? When the film lifted, she discerned that, in fact, it was Ginny's git for a brother standing in front of her. Suddenly, the past day's occurrences flooded her system and the fear materialized in her blood.
"What time is it?
"Five in the evening," he muttered, "Figured I'd wake you up for dinner and to find a plan to get the bloody hell out of here." He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable and vexed about having to converse with her. Hermione sat up groggily, rubbing her eyes, "You get the food," she ordered, "I'll see if I can scrounge up some parchment and ink."
Ron made quite a bit of noise in the kitchen. Slamming the cabinet doors, he grumbled at the lack of food. Their dinner was composed of dying fruit and dry roast, clearly forgotten food. Hermione's search was to no avail, there was next to nothing in the place. Silence settled over dinner, occasionally interrupted by the clink of rusted silverware on the cracked plates. Ample amounts of water did nothing to ease their hunger causing the tension to rise to dangerous levels.
With every stretching minute, Hermione could feel Ron's fury cascading among the room, a force field of irascibility that was lessening her hopes of cooperation. She laid her fork gently on the old, wooden table pockmarked by time. She softly cleared her throat, "I don't know what wards are on this place and I don't know the consequences. I'm not quite sure where we are, even." Her earlier thoughts of the Shrieking Shack were diminishing, seeing as how this place was comprised of two rooms.
"We don't have a doorway," she continued under his penetrating stare, "the only aperture we have is the window made of a mirror." The palpable tension increased as Ron moved to the window and examined it. Hermione fidgeted at the table as Ron stood as still as a statue. Abruptly, Ron's fist collided with the glass and Hermione let out a small shriek.
She rushed over to him, noticing that the window had suffered no damage. Ron held his hand close to his chest, silent as he watched blood pour from the wound. He sharply sucked in a breath while the wound seemed to be opening, splitting his skin, rupturing his veins. Trepidation crawled along Hermione's skin as the voice from earlier came to life.
"How foolish. Consequences will be suffered if you try to leave. This will be your only warning."
As soon as it struck, the voice was gone. Both of their breathing quickened as they watched Ron's hand heal. A solemn silence reigned over the room once more. Ron stepped into action and began pulling out the kitchen drawers, searching for something, anything, to break them out.
"I'll break down these damn walls, if I have to." He offered as explanation. He pulled out a dull knife and tried to pin it between the wooden boards making the walls. Before the knife could be stuck in, the piece of silverware turned in his hand and slashed the skin.
"Bloody hell!" He cried. The pain seemed to ignite his fury and he became a madman. The table was overturned and the drawers all pulled out of place. He picked up the small couch and threw it at the window. When nothing happened, he threw himself at the wall instead. His fists were flying into the wood and his nails were chipped and broken from scratching at the barrier that separated him from the outside world.
His seemingly unending onslaught was cut short by a stunning light that drove straight at Ron's chest. His tall, lean body was lifted into the air as he underwent an overly powerful curse. He screamed as though he was being engulfed in flames, as though he was being ripped apart. Hermione darted over to him, reaching out to him but was thrown back before she could reach him. Her body collided with the wall and she watched as his body, shaking like a rag doll, was finally released to the floor.
She crawled over him, tears welling in her eyes. She reached out to him but with the little strength he had left, he pushed her away, "Just stay away from me, woman." He grimaced and grunted in pain. She continued to lean over him and he screamed, "Leave!"
Hermione retreated to the bedroom. Tears finally falling down her dirt-covered face and sweat dripping down her back, she grabbed the blanket off the mattress. Her feet padded quietly back to Ron and she laid the blanket over him.
The whispers from the Grandfather clock seemed to become louder, more aggressive. Hermione looked down at her hands, speaking to the universe, "We're going to die, aren't we?"
A sob hitched in her throat as Ron replied, under his breath, "Yeah."
