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Love and War
Chapter Three

Isolation


A long time passed and Hermione was yet to regain consciousness. The sunrise spilt through the two-inch thin barred window five times. With each cycle, the blazing light warmed the cell to feel like an overworked sauna, but when it set, their prison was blanketed in the chill of night. This day was to be no different.

Midday was upon them, and sweat dripped off their bodies, collecting in a small puddle around them. Despite the heat, Hermione still quivered, and her skin was like ice. George laid motionless as he held her; he refused to move, hoping to give her as much warmth as he could. George only moved to send out an hourly distress call, and though he sent three so far, there was no responding message. Add that atop the inability to wake Hermione up or even heal her properly, and George was left feeling utterly helpless.

Waiting for help that seemed would never come was exhausting. It was not like George had not tried to escape on his own. He examined every inch of the cell when the Death Eaters took Hermione the first time. George scoured every inch of the concrete, trying to find some sort of weakness, but came up empty handed. Without his wand, George had no way of fighting back. And when she came back, and all he could do was scoop her into his arms and let the finality of it all sink in.

George was stuck, and, more importantly, Hermione was stuck. It was pure desperation that caused him to cling to a hope which seemed further from his grasp with each passing second and it was rather demoralising. Prison was truly maddening, and he suddenly understood Sirius Black's mental instability upon escaping Azkaban.

Staring down at Hermione with mix of awe and worry, George wondered how she was still so sane. She was some sort of toy for their captors' sick demented pleasure and the very thought made him extremely nauseous. This place was hell and Hermione was here for two months longer than he. George had no idea how she was still alive, let alone still so fiercely determined to stand against them. This girl had a sort of conviction that was surprisingly tenacious.

What surprised him even more, however, was that the sadistic bastards had not come back for one of them. From the thrashing and screaming which bellowed from the room above, George assumed other Order members were of higher priority, and, as horrible as it sounded, he was actually quite thankful. He swallowed the lump of guilt in his throat as the thought passed him. It was awful and completely vile of him to wish harm on his fellow fighters, but Hermione finally given a chance to rest, and by the length of time she spent unconscious, George assumed this was the first time the dark wizards left her be.

They were both forgotten, allowed to waste away in the deafening sound of their combined breaths. If not for the masked demon with a pronounced double chin leaving a small plate of unappetizing slop and a glass of water by the door, he would have thought that this was the death eaters' ploy: have the isolation drive them to insanity. They were sentenced to become absolute nothingness within the blackness and it was strangely relieving.

In the isolation, he could show his emotions. He did not have to be stoic. He could worry and care about Hermione and plan their escape, not that he had made much progress. But here, in the vast nothing that was this solitude, George could let out all his admiration and respect shine through. He could protect her, treat her wounds as best he could, and hold her close, something he found rather comforting. This devotion that formed confused him but he wanted to fight for it and experience it with the same level of tenacity that Hermione possessed. The very idea of Hermione leaving his arms left George incomplete in the cold emptiness, and despite the selfish desire to keep her close, George would gladly walk this life alone if it meant she would be safe.

When the sunlight started to ease away from the window, letting the thick stuffy air a chance to cool, George finally felt Hermione stir and the concern stung at him. The fat bastard had just left for the first and only time that evening, so George was not worried about them taking her again; he knew if anything that would be tomorrow. What worried him were her conscious waking thoughts.

Hermione had just been horribly beaten. Fuck, vile words were carved into her flesh, how was he supposed to reel in his hatred when all he wanted to do was dismember each one of them for laying a hand on her? All he could register was this need to protect her, even if it was from her own emotions, and the feeling surged through his veins like a blazing fire. How exactly was he supposed to comfort her after all this?


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