Chapter 10: Silence

When she needed him around, he wasn't there...

They'd made it; they were alive. All except for Dobby, that brave, loyal, noble little creature who'd quite literally saved her life. Hermione didn't for one moment consider the truth of the situation, that Dobby's only intention, really, had been to rescue his 'master', Harry Potter. That she'd been an after-thought.

In that last vestige of schoolgirl naivety left within her, she didn't consider how her survival had been solely a result of the elf's hero-worship of her friend.

Then again, in those first three days at Shell Cottage, she didn't consider much of anything at all.

For once, Hermione Granger's mind was blank and, had she been aware of it, she would have said she enjoyed the numbness – it kept her from feeling those hands all over her, that breath against her collarbones, the endless, tortuous pain.

Resting against the pillows of Bill and Fleur's cozy sofa, she sighed.

Then coughed.

Then winced.

Harry and Ron were expecting too much of her, thinking she'd be up in a few days ready to fight, ready to hunt Horcruxes again. Never mind that her body still ached and stung and burned all over. No, that she could handle with pain potions and pastes.

But the thoughts? The nightmares?

The itching, crawling, scratching feel, in the dark of night, of those monsters' claws dragging down the skin of her stomach and up the inside of her thighs – it wouldn't go away.

Not even in her cherished numbness, not really. She could still feel it, was still very much aware that she was shaking with revulsion at phantom violations.

She hated it.

In a way, Hermione thought bitterly, she hated herself as well. Hated herself for deserving it, for being born dirty. Hated herself for getting caught, getting separated, not fighting back.

Where had that bravery gone, she wondered, that invincible feeling Fred's radio broadcast had inspired? Where was that girl? She let out one short, harsh bark that could have been laughter, could have been a sob. Did it even matter anymore?

"'Ermione?" called Fleur, entering the airy living room with a tray filled with steaming goblets. "Eet eez time for 'ur potions."

Looking up with wide doe eyes, Hermione gave a small nod. Nothing more. She wasn't ready to speak yet, didn't want to, couldn't. She couldn't face hearing her own voice again, a voice that had betrayed her under Cruciatus, had cried and screamed and cursed. A coward's voice.

Fleur nodded back, and Hermione's eyes dropped instantly down to the worn wooden floorboards below.

And as first one potion, then another, and then a third were passed to her in silence, her eyes remained fixed on the swirling patterns made in the dust by Fleur's movements.

"'Un more, ma petite," the French woman soothed, raising one final goblet, brimful with a thick, vividly red concoction that bubbled ominously. Grimacing, Hermione swallowed it all, eyes watering and legs trembling something violent.

"Je sais, ma petite," whispered Fleur. "I know."

And then she was off to find her husband, and Hermione was left all alone once more.

She couldn't wrap her head around it any more, what had become of her life. How had it gotten to the stage where she was reminding herself constantly that her pain was for the greater good. 'Greater good': that had been Grindlewald's line.

Had she the strength, she might have managed a mocking snort. Even now, she was giving herself a damned history lesson.

History of a world that didn't want her, of a world that was trying to forcibly remove her tainted blood. And she was letting them win by giving into those stupid nightmares.

But they were more than nightmares. They were –

Knock. Knock.

Knock.

Normally, Hermione rued, she would have been brimming with curiosity as to who would be knocking at the door. She would have been wondering why they hadn't used the floo, if it was perhaps Harry locked out or Ron back from his trek along the beach already. Normally, she would definitely have cared about the intruder.

But she was tired, and she was empty – soulless – and so she didn't wonder.

She simply lay as still as ever, on her side under a thin summer blanket, face emotionless and left arm well and truly concealed beneath the covers. Same as always. Same as she thought it might always be.

As she stared at the ceiling, the knocks began again.

Knock.

Knock.

Knockknockknockknockknock!

Frantic pounding now. She heard hurried footsteps, Fleur's unmistakable high heels clacking against the floorboards, then felt the magic of the wards shifting slightly around her.

A creak, a sudden draft in the room, a click, and silence.

Then –

"Where is she, Fleur?"

Well bugger if that menacing growl wasn't damn well near unforgettable.

Fred.

"Zee eez not well, Fred," she heard Fleur reply.

"I don't care," grunted her twin again. "Where is she?"

"Zee would not want –"

The door crashed open. Footsteps bashed against the floorboards, a familiar, homely face came into view.

And still Hermione didn't move, didn't blink, didn't react in any way.

Around her, the dust swirled and danced and glinted more violently than ever, and the air grew heavy all of a sudden. She wanted to hold her breath, nod, do anything to acknowledge Fred, but at the same time all she wanted, more than anything she'd ever desired before, was to disappear.

He was another piece of her life she wasn't ready to face yet. Not in this state. Fred deserved more than her half-hacked shell.

A pair of those bright blue eyes she adored so much swam before her, and she wanted to scream. Wanted to, but couldn't.

All she managed was a slight shudder. Pathetic, she told herself in anger.

Even more pathetic that she should have been frightened by his presence. If there was anyone out there left in the Wizarding world who didn't wish her harm, who wouldn't intentionally hurt her, it was her twin.

And yet those eyes, while so different, were still so much the same as the blue that had bore down on her vindictively in the Malfoy's parlour, while she'd struggled and cried and fought and... given up.

It was shame that caused her first real movement since Fred had entered the room. In one slow, deliberate sweep, her gaze dropped to the sheet draped over her bruised legs, and her arm tucked itself more closely into her side.

She heard a scuffle, then, his shoes tapping the floorboards as he made to crouch beside her. Still, she focused on the stitching covering her, hiding her flaws, protecting her from the truth of her... condition.

Fleur had promised the scars would heal eventually. The ones on her torso and legs, that was. No one dared to mention what would become of the very obvious scrawl across her arm, and in her more aware moments, Hermione was well aware of the meaning of their silence.

"Mina?" she heard his gruff whisper, and a part of her yearned to answer. Maybe he could make her better?

Moments passed, the room completely still save for the sharp ticks of the clock by the door.

"Please Mina," he said again. "Please, you're scaring me."

If she had been whole, her heart might have broken for the pain in his voice. As it was, she felt nothing. She wished to – nothing would have made her happier than if she could feel that same warm rush of hope he usually inspired – but the numbness had too tight a grip.

All her life, she'd wondered what it would be like to be able to switch her mind, her emotions off. Now that she had, she couldn't even feel to enjoy it.

But then came the wetness.

Splash. Once, twice. One more.

Unsurely, she stretched out a finger, noticing the strange burning sensation just above the knuckle.

Splash.

Hermione recoiled, confused and disorientated as the fog that had kept her sanity since the rescue gradually lifted and her surroundings grew ever more clearer.

The colour of the walls were first to catch her attention, a steady teal colour. Next came the scratchiness of the blanket, its coarseness rubbing over her wounds rather unpleasantly as she continued to extend her finger.

And then, Hermione's searching eyes found Fred.

Bent double, face a ghostly white, he was staring at her with a line of tears creeping down his long nose, dripping onto the skin of her hand. He looked, she thought, as though he was feeling everything on her behalf – so many emotions were held in that ashen face, her stomach lurched.

"Fred," she tried, but her croak was barely audible and she worried he wouldn't hear. "I'm sorry."

Her strength was all used up, and as she closed her eyes against another wave of nausea, she found herself slipping away into yet another nightmare. Fleur's potions were taking effect too soon.

As she left consciousness, she could have sworn she heard an "I love you" from somewhere close, but it was too late. Greyback's beastly face was already forming in front of her and the sensation of his clammy breath against her chest was returning too quickly.

Just as she went limp, giving in to the terror of the dream, an angel's whisper found her: "My brave, noble Mina, I won't leave you again."

And when, two hours later, she awoke drenched in sweat and yelling until her lungs were scorched, he was gone.

That was it, the final straw. Finally, shaking off the last of her pride, Hermione did as she had longed to since she had found herself at Shell Cottage. She cried.

A/N Well then, apologies first of all for the obscene wait between chapters 9 and 10. University gets in the way. Apologies also if anyone thinks this is too exaggerated a reaction from Hermione. Past experiences of less traumatic abuse fed into her character in this chapter. Perhaps its content explains why it took so long for me to get the chapter as close to perfect (in my mind) as I could. I've really appreciated the trickle of reviews I've received in the break this story took, so thank you to anyone who's stuck with me and is reading this right now; I appreciate you.

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