Chapter Three- Spilt Blood
Swimminglizard20: She may be saved; she might not, so you'll have to read on….
Tomorrows dust: Yes, it is Hermione/Sirius, but I didn't know who the main female character would be until Chapter Two, so if you know how to change it, do tell…
Disclaimer: As I have said on either this or EHTS, I own NOTHING but a computer and a lollipop, which has been stolen and salivafied by my friend Andy, so… just the computer… it's all J.K's.
A/N: The penname is bordering on insane now; last I heard it was going to be 'sugarplumfairy', but I will murder Will if he does that to me. Pact or no pact, rest assured that will NOT be my penname.
God, you lot out there in cyber world must get bored with my long ranting author notes…
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Charlie.
Rain trickled down the window pane like tears. I couldn't see out of it, to the black ground two storeys below, the pot-holed road or the cheap concrete pavement of the neglected lane. Not that I cared, what did it matter to me? It wasn't worth shit to me; nothing was. Apart from Hermione.
She was so strong, so brave to continue with the abuse our father dealt her. She was the one who had taught me the numbness, when that bastard had started -
No, don't think about it, Charlie, I told myself. I don't venture down that trail of mind; I'm afraid of the consequences.
The black hellhole my father calls my bedroom is cheap; the furniture is second hand, the paint scavenged, the carpet is the same one the previous owners had, having never been replaced in the twelve years that we have occupied this wreck. I had to supply the contents of the room- my father had spat in our faces and laughed when we had so naively asked for money to buy things.
When we outgrew cots, we were given a mattress and a single, tattered blanket to share between us; my early years held memories of constant coldness, holding my sisters frail, shivering body closer to me, trying to keep her from growing ill.
It never worked, but I tried nevertheless. Hermione had always been so much more worse than I; the beatings begun earlier; when she was eight or nine- my torture started at eleven, but it was long enough a time- she caught colds and sicknesses easily; I cannot remember when I didn't see her sneezing.
My teeth clenched as I recalled the first time I saw her after the numbness set in; hollow, dead, barely human. But it was her eyes that frightened me the most; empty, hopeless and hard, after that day I never saw a flicker of emotion in her ever again. My father, well, I couldn't call him that any more, after what he had done to us, but I realised a long time ago that he was nothing like he pretended to be; every loving word, every caring smile was a show, a lie, and the only thing I could be certain of was that he was a bastard who would never change.
I can feel my control slipping with each despairing thought; soon I would need my release. I hate myself for being so weak, but what else could I do? It was the only thing that softened the pain that I used to feel; now it was a habit I can not break.
My fathers loathsome face; leering and cruel- his intention clear on his face- as he ordered me to go away only hours before loomed into my vision, blocking everything else out.
I snapped.
Striding to my pitiful excuse for a wardrobe- a long cupboard with the doors missing- I throw my scarce belongings out of it, searching for the blessed box. After a several moments of rifling through the contents of the 'wardrobe' I found what I was looking for; a small, black box.
Its silver clasp is rusty, making it troublesome to open; the lid protests, as if it does not wish to share its contents, but it withers under my hands; three black books and a quill lie, nestled in black velvet inside, flanked by two other objects. With respective care, I rescue the books from their silky capturers-but it is only the one on the top of the others that I am interested in-and lay them on the floor beside me, keeping only one in my hands. The edges are dog-eared, as if it has been thrown around too many times, the corners were torn, crinkled; several pages protruded at disturbing angles.
I flipped it open, deliberately ignoring the pages that were filled with crimson script, to an empty page, and then returned my gaze to the box, where a pot of ink rested; it lid carved into an angel, her wings spread, encircling the rim in silver feathers. A gift, from Hermione.
Taking it out, I dipped the black phoenix feather into it, the tip emerging doused in glittering ruby liquid.
Steeling myself for what was to come, I began to write.
I'm drowning in my memories. Of Hermione when she was happy, of her sweet, carefree face, innocent in its youthfulness, but then these recollections are shadowed, by visions of her now; her dead eyes, the bruises that are constantly present under her eyes-neither of us sleep; we are afraid that we will wake up and the other will be gone; taken by the merciless hands of Roger Granger.
The two of us may be numb, permanently emotionless, but we are still aware of the hurt that we have- and still do- endured, we acknowledge that we will always be broken; that we can never be normal- now that Roger has damaged us beyond repair. That knowledge will haunt us forever, knowing that our own father has doomed us to a life with no meaning.
My dear sister; I can hear her screams from up here, in our room. I know what HE is doing to her; I know that it may break her so viciously that she may not recover- if we ever can; after what has happened these past six years I doubt it.
I can only comfort her when he is finished, hope that she can be saved from the abyss she will no doubt sink further into. No-one helped me when I was hurt, so I sank further still; now I cannot resurface. Hermione has no idea how deep my scars run; hopefully, she will never find out. She has the potential to recover from this.
I do not.
The screams of my sister had stopped when I had finished; now I would have my release.
With familiar, unexplained trepidation, I turned to face the last remaining object in my box.
The knife; blood-coated and glimmering in the light of the streetlamp directly outside my window, staining the blade a sickly orange. I picked it up, holding it gently to avoid being cut with the sharp point when I did not wished to be, and balanced it in my hands with two fingers. I stared at it with cold, uncaring eyes.
Without a second more hesitation, I flicked it over, pressing it into my arm, no doubt or regret crossing my mind as I watched the beads of crimson appear, rapidly growing into jagged red streaks. My blood ran down my arm, creating stripes of red down its length. I flipped my wrist over, so the blood gathered in a drop and fell, splattering on the open page of my… journal, you could say; the shattered droplets making beautiful, - in a sick, twisted way- fanlike patterns, dancing across the page, melding in with the ink.
I watched the flood of ruby tears begin to slow, and then cease altogether as the blood clotted and halted the flow. Relief and satisfaction coursed through me, I had been awaiting this moment for hours; it was my release, it was like medication, I was in pain till I took it; except I didn't feel the pain, not even when I purposely dug into my own skin to try and feel something.
As I re-gathered my precious objects and placed them in the box, the passive breeze swooped in through the miniscule, grime-encrusted window and ruffled the dirty pages of my 'journal'. I grimaced as countless blood-soaked pages demanded my gaze, drawing me in with their hypnotic, deadly power; I was ashamed of my addiction, I didn't need to see the proof laid out before me.
The snuffle and the furious shout were my only alert.
With desperate haste, I grasped the box and stuffed it back into the crevice it was kept in. I snatched a cotton wrap from my shelf, looping it around my wound, stubbornly ignoring the rows of neat, white scars that decorated the length of my arms, and pulled my sleeve over the top.
With the acquired stealth of the hunted, I crept soundlessly down the stairs; my head just protruding slightly around the corner so I could see downstairs.
Roger had a silent Hermione around the neck, dragging her towards the basement door; which he shoved open in one shove.
"Now, bitch," He snarled, spitting in Hermione's face. "You'll spend some time in here; why? Because you deserve it you worthless piece of" the rest of his words were lost as Hermione turned her head to block him out, and stared straight into my eyes.
She shocked me; for the first time in over six years, her carefully erected mask had slipped, and she was crying.
Her desperate eyes were all I saw before she was thrown roughly down the steps and the heavy door to the basement was closed, condemning her to a place I couldn't follow to unless I had the door's key.
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Sirius
The rain sailed into me, splattering my robes until I was drenched to the skin; water seeped into my eyes, blurring my vision. The broom I was perched on was slippery with water; my hands were numb, but I flew on through the torrents, because I had to.
The date was October twenty-first. Nothing special, expect Hermione was supposed to return to Number twelve Grimmauld Place yesterday, but she hadn't.
It was in these times, when Voldemort was at large, that even a few hours lateness sparked panic in everybody.
Hermione understood the paranoia, she wouldn't have done this intentionally, I knew that. She was a gifted person; equal if not the better of the majority of Voldemort's followers, but talented as she was, Hermione would not have withstood an attack of many Death Eaters alone.
And then there was her parents to consider; Muggles, incapable of defending themselves if she fell.
So we; Tonks, Lupin, Harry, Ron, Ginny Arthur and Kingsley, were heading towards Hermione's house now, to inspect it and ensure that everything was as it should be and this was all a mistake. Tension ran high between us; all of us were wondering what we would find, but at the same time dreading what we imagined would be there.
"Sirius!" Arthur's voice was barely perceptible above the screaming winds, but I heard it. "Bring your group down, the house has been spotted!"
Dread and relief battled in me; we were close, but what would we find? A ruin, dead bodies strewn like common rubbish amongst the debris… a heated battle? A perfect, unspoiled house where everything was in order?
Every cell of my body yearned for the latter, yet hardly anything of me believed it would be true.
"Oi!" I bellowed, my voice shaking slightly due to my thoughts, but the wind's roars blocked it out. "Down in three!" In sync, eight silhouettes astride broomsticks plunged downwards, breaking the descent at the last second.
We hovered, tense, waiting for an attack, our wands brandished undramatically- there was no time for frivolity in battle.
Nothing happened. No black clad people appeared, no jets of light issuing from their wands.
"Dismount!" Kingsley ordered hoarsely; the continual shouting had obviously taken its toll on him. We all obeyed, grouping together and moving towards the front door with anxiety radiating off each of us.
None of us were prepared for what we witnessed in Hermione Granger's house; I was certain scene would haunt me until my last breath and beyond.
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A/N: okay, what do you think? Not much happens in this, but the Order has found Hermione's house! What will they see inside when they go in? Actually, I'm not sure, but it will come to me…
Review?
GP
