She felt her body tremble, felt the aches and sores spread throughout her body, her fingers clawing into the hard stone floor, nails grating and breaking apart. She writhed, screamed helplessly, ashamed of herself, of the tears tracking down her face, of the pathetic way she handed herself over to him.

What was she to do? She had no wand, no skill with Apparition, hell, she didn't even have her dignity anymore.

Her body – her naked, throbbing body may as well have belonged to Lucius Malfoy for all that she could do to fight him. It was what he wanted, exactly what he took pleasure in, and precisely the way he expected her to give over the information he needed.

The one thing he needed and the one thing she would never, ever tell him.

"Mudblood, I tire of your defiance," Lucius sneered down at her coolly, careless of her screams, the sobs that collapsed against her lungs, the harsh breaths that she found were difficult to suck in.

Today, Lucius Malfoy did not want the release he had taken to using her for, he did not want the faux passion he ordinarily gained from inserting himself inside of her, gyrating his hips like something possessed while she was either unconscious or squirming helplessly beneath him in protest. Today he wanted his information, wanted the details on Lily Potter's protection for her son, wanted her to guide him into killing Harry Potter. Today he wanted to take out his frustrations, his anger out on her weak, emaciated frame, and nothing in the world could stop him.

With a sudden jerk, he removed her from the curse's constrictions. She gasped in air, sobbing from the pain, sobbing from the humiliation and the squalor, praying, hoping for anyone to take her away from here, to take her home, to rid of Lucius Malfoy and his painful persecutions.

It hurt to breathe. Every time she sucked a breath in she felt the sting in her lungs, the straining of her muscles, she swore she heard her bones break.

Please, she thought frantically, please let him be finished.

The glint of the silver blade elicited a shriek from her, a shrill noise that she had no way of controlling, that she knew as soon as she released would bring that feral grin back to his face, mocking her, terrifying her.

What more could he do? Had he not already bruised, slashed, and demeaned her body and pride enough? Did he have no limits?

The whimper that her shout had died down to was worse, even to her own ears. It did nothing to hide her horror, her absolute fear of the blade touching her flesh again, and she knew that it would only encourage him. She couldn't control her breathing, could scarcely even hear what he was saying now.

He crouched down to bring his hand sharply against her cheek, effectively reverting her attention back to him, back to his sickening voice, his disturbingly eerie tone. "Listen to me, you inferior filth!" He snarled viciously.

No, she thought, he clearly was not in one of his more forgiving moods.

"My Lord has begun to think of me as a liability, mudblood, because of you and your silence and it will no longer be tolerated!" Malfoy stood furiously to kick her side, only her arm hung limply in his path, taking the brunt of the force. She tightened her jaw. She could handle this, she needed to handle this. It was one of his softer forms of torture, and if she could not handle this then she stood no chance of surviving long enough to escape from the hellhole she was in.

Her insides twittered roughly, reminding her that she had no means of escape, that it had been a long time – too long – since she'd been taken and clearly they either did not know she had been taken or could not find where she had been taken to. She pushed the sobs back into her chest, tried to fight the pessimism because it would not help her, and still could not help but wonder if this was where she would die, where she would take her last breath, if naked and bloody would be the way she was featured in The Daily Prophet, and if so, how Harry and Ron would cope with that.

Stop! She ordered herself to quit thinking that way, because if she were to die it would not be because she had leaked Harry's secrets, and she will have died knowing that she protected him and honored his trust, his confidentiality. But that did not stop her from being afraid, because she was absolutely terrified that she would not survive long enough to see herself out of here.

Malfoy's face was twisted in disgust as his boots quickly lifted and dully landed against the sturdy stone that she was sprawled across. "I would expect someone as… intelligent," he scowled darkly at the word, "as yourself to be wise enough to know when you are fighting a losing battle."

The pacing continued. Hermione could not count the taps of his shoes, and it scared her. She tried once, twice, and then a third time and could not keep her focus long enough to reach past the number ten.

"Tell me, mudblood! Tell me the secret to killing Potter!" Lucius roared.

Hermione flinched, the movement causing more pain than perhaps the actual curse had, but denied him. "No," she grated out, and even the two-letter word pained her.

Malfoy shouted out in his anger, brought himself down to her level quicker than she could blink – which unfortunately not very quick, she could admit, due to her lack of sleep and utter exhaustion – and dug the blade sharply into her chest. She yelped in pain, the wound stinging smartly, hindering her already unsteady breaths, her body too weak to scramble away from him.

"You worthless child!" Lucius growled, more angry than she had yet heard him, pressing the knife into her stomach, deeper than the last, the contusion he made also longer than most of the others he'd inflicted upon her body.

The sobs were back, harsh and excruciating, unstoppable despite the agony they put her through.

Malfoy was on a rage, the knife carrying out his fury, the blood across her skin proof of his uncontrollable temper. She cried, body parts twitched uselessly in a vain attempt to move away from the sting. He was relentless and ferocious, severe and brutal. And he wasn't stopping, looked like he wouldn't for anything in the world.

And then he hissed, a sound almost foreign to her from his mouth. He stood up, his robes whipping around him in a way almost reminiscent of Professor Snape, and he clicked his thumb and forefinger together. A house elf materialized in front of her, she could hardly see it through her sketchy, tired eyes.

"Heal her," Malfoy gritted his teeth together, glancing down at her disdainfully before Apparating away.

She felt only slightly safer, but knew that she would not be touched – because the house elf never touched her. Hermione allowed her eyes to slip shut, allowed her mind to fall into the black that had been invading her vision since he'd entered the small dungeon.

/x\

She'd slept awfully, her night plagued with Malfoy, with glints and flashes of shimmering knives and painful interrogations. Her heart pounded roughly, her breaths were labored, and she unwillingly kept fumbling over memories that she'd hoped to keep buried, that she'd worked damn hard to pound into a box and set into the darkest, most unused corner of her mind.

Hermione stumbled down the stairs after dressing, tired, her body shaking – a side-effect of the Cruciatus that she was told would probably never die away, and would strike up whenever she found that she was stressed – and managed, only barely, to set the kettle running without smashing Mrs. Weasley's china.

The tears crashed down her face unbidden, but she didn't pay attention to them, could only just keep her mind in the present long enough to notice them. She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, really, and willed the thoughts to go away. She was safe now, she was safe. He couldn't touch her, couldn't hurt her, couldn't curse her or sentence her to the Cruciatus.

The kettle whistled softly, Hermione aggressively jerked in her chair, startled by the noise, frightened. She hated herself for fearing the slightest noises, hated that she couldn't get away from him even now, even weeks after she'd been rescued from him. She stood unsteadily, finished preparing the tea, scrabbling with the cups, unable to control the tremors in her hands. She didn't want to be afraid anymore, didn't want to be reminded of him anymore. But she also didn't want to forget, didn't want to banish the memories completely because she knew that she needed them to motivate her, needed to remember what Malfoy had done to her parents, what he'd done to her to keep herself going.

It was early; dawn was barely touching the horizon. On impulse, Hermione wanted to watch it, wanted to watch the sun's rays whisper across the dewy lawn. She crept out the front door, pressed it shut with a soft click and pressed her limbs to work long enough to find the garden. She sat cross-legged on the dusty ground, not minding that her jeans were getting dirty.

The sky behind her, opposite of the sun barely peeking up, was dull and gray, and she just didn't want to look at it. She watched the colors, the vibrant gold, the sleepy oranges, appreciated the blues that the sky provided around the sun.

She rested her elbows on her knees, placed her head inside of her hands, tugged at her hair and sobbed into the quiet, humid morning. Would the pain ever go away?

/x\

Fred and George watched Hermione in a rare moment of reverent silence, afraid to startle her, afraid to be caught watching her. She wouldn't have liked it very much for them to see her crying, not about this.

They couldn't be sure of exactly what she was crying about, but she shook too hard, jumped too much for it to be over anything petty, and they were positive that she was beyond crying over the petty things, because she had been through too much to cry over the things that didn't matter.

The twins didn't like it.

Hermione Granger was smart, and loyal, and good. And she still was those things, all of those things, but now she hurt.

It hadn't been too hard to conjure up disguises and IDs to venture into London and pretend to be Hermione's representatives, to pretend that she had sent them in her stead because she was a bit busy at the moment working things through with her family. She had sent them, and she was working things through with her family, only she had sent them as friends, not as her legal attorneys, and she was working things through with her new family and settling in, not the old family to work out her living arrangements.

The will had been easy to obtain, the letters only slightly harder. The Grangers' attorney had hesitated, explained that the Grangers had been very direct and forward when stating that the letters must reach Hermione, and no one had best look at their letters before she read them. They'd been very convincing, very polite, very understanding, and the lawyer had caved within a few moments.

They hadn't read the letters; nosy as they were, they would never snoop around anything that personal, that was just beyond invasive, beyond trickery and curiosity. It would have been rude, unseemly, and positively wrong.

Fred had figured that Hermione would share with them when he was ready, that they should wait until that time to ask their numerous questions.

George disagreed. He didn't think that Hermione would tell them anything in those letters unless they asked about it, but Fred wouldn't allow them to question her.

"Did you see how upset she was at dinner?" Fred argued quietly, once they had ducked out of hearing range. "Something in those letters didn't match up, Georgie. Besides, she was right sobbing, she was. You heard her."

"Yes," George murmured in agreement. He didn't need to say anything. Fred understood that there was more to his answer, understood that he was curious but would be patient if it was necessary, understood that he wasn't sure if it was okay that she wasn't telling anyone else about the letters.

They worried in silence, Fred tapping his finger to his thigh thoughtfully, George gnawing on his lip, intent to watch Hermione through to window. He needed to be sure that she was safe, after all. It simply wouldn't do for her to be taken again, not ever again.

/x\

Sunup meant that the Weasleys were sure to be stirring. Hermione figured she should hurry back before they began to worry, but she didn't want to tear her eyes away from the sky, from the glistening grass. In an hour or two the dew would be gone, wouldn't sparkle the way it did now, and the sun's colors would have been much less appealing. She wanted to stay, wanted to watch the colors, feel the moisture in the air, the light breeze that wafted across the garden.

She shifted to bring her knees up to her chest, rested her cheek against her thighs.

How had it all gotten this pear-shaped?

She breathed out a huff of air, satisfied that even if the tremors had not stopped, she had corrected her breathing.

Exhausted.

That was how she was feeling, how she'd been feeling. She had hoped that her parents' letters would clear some things up, would give her some sort of goal to aim toward, something to use her bottomless motivation for. If they had given her something to go at, she didn't know about it yet. According to her father, she had to wait until her birthday in September.

True, the summer was almost over, but that was still half a month's worth of time to think things over, and she wasn't sure that was such a great idea. She didn't want to think about what she would say to her sister when – if – she were to come across her on September nineteenth, she just wanted to play it by ear. She was done thinking, letting her thoughts and hesitations drive her away from things that she knew needed to be done. She was not foolish enough to think that meeting her sister and finding the demons was a shoe-in guarantee. She would be at Hogwarts after all, and if some demon – Element, she corrected herself, because she'd gathered from her father's letter that they frowned upon the name 'demon' – had planned to come and retrieve her it might be a hell of a lot more difficult to reach her at Hogwarts.

Clearly, though, they were not ignorant to magic, nor were wizards ignorant of them. They just didn't get along. She wondered how it would be to have a little of both mixed in her.

She didn't like to think about the EEs (Earthly Elements) too often, because she feared that she would be disappointed if she didn't come into it on her own, if she would never meet the alleged twin sister that her father had told her about. Hermione's mother had assured her that the sister existed, had verified that her father's claim was legit, and mostly spent the rest of the letter detailing the items that held sentimental value that Hermione should remove from the house. She also told Hermione that she loved her then, and that she would love her no less in death.

So her mother had been the one to soothe things over, as per usual, and her father had taken on the more serious matter. It had always been that way. Both parents were always there when the bad news was delivered, but her father spoke most, her father relayed the gritty details while her mother stroked her hair, offered to make tea, and came up to Hermione's room to rock her while she cried. Her parents had melded together that way before Hermione was born. Her dad handled the adults at the practice, and her mother comforted the frightened children while inspecting their teeth.

She was just confused, unbearably so. It seemed unreal to be going back to Hogwarts in a week, it was difficult to imagine going back to classes, pretending everything was alright as she'd done in the past. No, she'd seen this war upfront, more than ever before, and she wasn't keen on acting like it didn't happen.

Not for the first time she wondered how much the outsiders knew. Mrs. Weasley and the band of redheads that were now not only her friends, but her family had made it a point to keep The Prophet out of sight, and consequently out of Hermione's mind. It led her to believe that perhaps the public knew a far sight more than she'd like, and that disturbed her. She'd much rather be prepared for whatever attention she'd be getting, come September first.

/x\

"Morning Hermione," Mr. Weasley said brightly, a smile lighting his face. It suited him, and smiles were becoming rarer and rarer these days. It pleased her, if only slightly.

"Morning Mr. Weasley," Hermione nodded back, unable to muster a smile at the time. "How'd you sleep?"

"Very well," he said, shifting in his chair. "And yourself?"

She tensed, turned her back to pour herself some coffee, and – after pausing a hair too long – she said, "I slept fine." She knew he didn't believe her, couldn't particularly blame him for the concerned frown that fell over his mouth, but she didn't have to like that she was worrying and hurting them, especially not because it seemed that lately she'd been doing just that more and more often.

Her hands shook with the coffee mug and it struck her that perhaps coffee hadn't been the best way to stall for time, perhaps the coffee would worry him more than her lack of sleep. It really couldn't be helped now, he'd seen the cup shaking, but she nevertheless set it back on the table, avoiding his eyes.

"Hermione – " he started.

"You should probably be heading off, yes?" Hermione glanced at the clock pointedly. "I think you're a bit late." And he was, but they both knew that wasn't why she'd pointed it out.

He looked thoughtful for a moment, but stood, offering a small smile as he did. When he passed her he bent over, as if to kiss the crown of her head, but she stiffened, gripped the handle of the mug with a vengeance, knuckles turning white. He stopped a moment before his lips touched her hair, pulled back suddenly. "Merlin…" he murmured, "forgive me. I – I forgot."

She sharply drew in a breath, thankful he spoke, thankful for the reminder that this was Mr. Weasley, not Malfoy, and that he'd never hurt her. "It's okay," she said on an exhale. "It's okay," she said again, more to assure herself than him. "You should… get moving, I think."

"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, of course. I'll see you this evening then."

As soon as the door slipped closed, Hermione's eyes did as well. She hated that she couldn't stand the feel of anyone else's hands, hated that despite that these were her friends, her family, she couldn't let them touch her. But more than that, more than the dreams and the memories, even more than the scars, she hated that they felt that they had to hesitate with her. It wasn't unfounded, that much was clear and there had been an obvious example of that just a moment ago, because if this had been Ginny, or hell, any of the girls in her dorm at Hogwarts, she'd hesitate to feign normalcy, too.

/x\

Mrs. Weasley declared that she wanted to pick up the school supplies alone this year, to avoid "the hustle and bustle" of getting ready to leave. Harry and Ron didn't mind, that meant that they could avoid going into the bookshop, and neither of them particularly enjoyed shopping anyway.

It bothered Hermione. She was sure that Mrs. Weasley had intended well, but she was going stir-crazy, and she knew that the Weasley matriarch had only been trying to keep Hermione away from large crowds. While that was a nice gesture, she knew it would make it worse when she arrived at Platform 9 and ¾. She didn't particularly care for having another one of her fits before she even hit Hogwarts, especially not around all of her classmates.

"Mum's only doing her best," Ginny defended softly when Hermione broached the subject. "But I understand why it could make things worse."

She shrugged, struggled with words for a moment before she said quietly, "I'm thankful, I really am. I just – I don't know that I like being the cause of plans shifting and schedules changing is all." It was partially a lie, because she didn't want to go into detail about her fits; the only person who had seen one of them had been McGonagall, and she supposed Mr. Weasley had caught the tail end of one a couple of days before, but she'd managed to calm herself considerably. She had vanished the tears, used a bit of water from her wand to rinse her face, and had controlled her harsh breathing. He'd seen the shakes, the tense body, but she knew that wasn't the worst of it.

"Hermione," Ginny asked warily, "can I ask you something?"

"You can," Hermione said, "I just may not answer."

Ginny nodded and absentmindedly continued to comb her hair while she thought of how to word what she meant to say. "When Malfoy… took you, did he say – I mean, did he… have a reason?"

Rigid and firm, "You mean besides that he's a heartless bastard?" She snarled callously. Ginny blushed and Hermione watched her eyes water. She waited a moment to finish, enough time to compose herself, before she gave Ginny the answer that she'd been looking for. "Yes, he had a reason," she said, tightly gripping her quill, entirely unaware that it had snapped in half.

Ginny wasn't dim like Ron had a tendency to be, she was smart, and quite capable of taking hints and interpreting the words that weren't said. She knew Hermione wasn't ready to talk yet, knew that Hermione wasn't planning on divulging anything else, and could respect that. Lucius Malfoy wasn't especially high on Ginny's list either, not after the Chamber of Secrets, but he'd never actually hurt her. Tom had, sort of, but it had been an emotional hurt more than anything, and all he had done was knock her unconscious. Granted, he had planned to kill her, but he hadn't hurt her yet.

Lucius Malfoy hadn't just hurt Hermione, he'd permanently wrecked her. She was still alive, still Hermione, but it bothered them all that she no longer gave hugs, that she hadn't shown any signs of wanting to ever feel another human touch again. She could understand it, really she could, and God she could scarcely stand to look at Hermione on some days because the scars were such a painful reminder of why she didn't like to be touched. It was just different not to be greeted with the patented Hermione Bear Hug, or a kiss on the cheek, or even a touch on the shoulder.

It hurt to see her in this much pain, hurt to pretend not to hear her when she started to grunt and moan, writhe, twist, squirm in the night and woke up to have a cup of tea. Ginny'd never had the courage to turn and watch as she left nor to even ask if she was all right, but what good would it have done anyway? She clearly was not alright, and Ginny didn't think she'd appreciate being asked such a redundant question.

"I have to go talk to your dad," Hermione mumbled, very much aware that Ginny had spent the past few minutes watching her, uncomfortable with the attention and the distress.

She dragged her feet downstairs, her body aching – yet another effect of the Cruciatus that the healers had told her would happen now and again. They said that she could ask the school healer for a dose of potion for it, and they had given her some bottles to take home that would help it, but Hermione was reluctant to take them. They had said that some days it might get so painful that she couldn't move, and she shouldn't try to force herself if that should happen, but today was not one of those days. It just ached; not exactly a dull ache, but not unbearable, either.

"Wotcher, Hermione!" Tonks's cheerful voice startled her, caused her to grip the banister tightly until she could let the fear wash away with the recognition of who was speaking.

"Hi, Tonks," she tried to smile, but was sure it was at least a bit strained. "Lupin."

He'd demanded after a point that they quit calling him 'Professor' but she just couldn't use his first name, so Lupin had stuck.

"How are you?" He asked kindly, the frown lines around his mouth giving away his true intent.

Well, Hermione thought wryly, isn't that a loaded question. My limbs ache, my eyes are practically collapsing in fatigue, I look like a bleeding raccoon, I need to talk to my parents' lawyer, and this is the second time today that I've been asked – directly or indirectly – about Lucius Malfoy. I'm fine, thanks, how are you?

"Okay," she answered instead, fearing for a moment that she might tell him something he needn't concern himself with. "Have you seen Mr. Weasley?"

"He's at the Ministry, I'm afraid," Lupin said. "Anything I can help with?"

Well, he could help, maybe. "I… need to talk with my parents' attorney to deal with the house, and my parents' practice," she said, only just able to keep the tears, the utter depression at bay. She would have waited for Mr. Weasley, but it had taken too long to work up the courage to ask at all, and she feared that if she didn't ask now she wouldn't be able to later. "I have to go get some things from my house and work out arrangements with the moving and storage companies."

There. That had sounded okay, she thought. A bit too professional for them to think she was really okay with the situation, but not sniveling, despite the feeling of complete emptiness that had washed over her.

/x\

Author's Note: I know, none of Draco in this chapter. He'll be in the next one, don't worry. This was more of an attempt to bind the two plots together, to show that the demon-issue isn't going to completely overshadow the loss of her parents and the pain Malfoy caused. I hope I didn't do too horribly. Please review. : )