A/N: If there was any way to properly apologize as much as I currently need to, I would do it. I realize that it has been almost a year (!) since I last updated this story, and I don't know how I let that happen. I had half of this chapter sitting around for such a long time, but I just drew such a huge blank. I found it incredibly difficult to find time to actually sit down and get any writing done. But here I am, back and ready to press on!
A large portion of this chapter is quite similar to a part from the actual book, but told from a different point of view. So of course I'd like to reiterate that I claim no ownership of the characters or plot information, that all belongs to good old J.K.
The floor was cold and hard beneath her thinly clothed body. It was strange and different, and yet all too familiar. Hermione pried her eyes open and saw an impressive chandelier hanging above her, the crystals glinting in the white lights that had been hastily conjured. She craned her neck and watched in confused nervousness as a pair of darkly-clad feet strode confidently towards her across the marble floor. A sharp clack accompanied each step. A shock of terror blasted through her when the figure let out an all-too-familiar cackle. It all came to her instantly. This was Malfoy Manor. Harry and Ron were currently locked up somewhere below, and she was left alone with the remainder of the Malfoy family.
Bellatrix Lestrange had reached her and was now kneeling beside her on the marble. The cackling continued, each breath shooting a fresh bout of dread through her.
"It seems you have something of mine, sweetie. Do tell how you managed to come into ownership of such an object." Her voice was dripping with malice. Hermione shook her head.
"I… I don't know what you're talking about." Hermione knew her voice was full of fear, but there was nothing she could do. The woman slipped a shiny, delicate object out of her dress pocket and presented it to Hermione, balancing it mere inches above her face. With it so close, Hermione had difficulty focusing on what it was, until it was brought down against her forearm. At the very first slice she screamed, so loud that there was no doubt that even the boys – wherever they were – could hear her.
"Don't play games with me, child! How did you get the sword?" Her furious words reverberated around the hall. Hermione shook her head again, but kept her mouth shut. Bellatrix returned to her work, and the tip of the razor-sharp blade turned this way and that through her skin. A scream parted her lips unbid at every new twist of the dagger, shrill and full of agony.
Bellatrix's voice grew even angrier. "HOW DID YOU GET INTO MY VAULT?"
"We didn't, I swear! I don't even know where your vault is!" Bellatrix threw down the knife and rose above Hermione, her efforts with the dagger finished, or forgotten. Hermione felt no relief that Bellatrix had left her arm alone, as their time together was certainly not at an end.
"LIAR!" She cried, whipping out her wand. Bellatrix shuffled backwards a few steps, then raised her arm parallel to the floor. The wand was pointing right at Hermione, at the spot between her eyes.
"What else did you take? What else? ANSWER ME!" The wand quivered slightly and the witch shook with anger. Hermione knew the word before it passed her lips, yet there was nothing she could do to defend herself.
"Crucio!" She hissed through clenched teeth. The pain hit Hermione immediately, an all-consuming and intense agony. She was writhing on the floor, but she no longer knew where she was. It seemed inevitable that her head were about to explode, and white-hot knives were piercing every inch of her skin. She was screaming louder than ever before, a noise so loud she was not sure if human ears could hear it.
Bellatrix flicked her wand upwards, and the pain subsided. Hermione lay gasping on the floor, her muscles still shaking with the aftermath of the curse.
"So? Any new information? How did you get into my vault? Did that filthy little goblin help you?" Bellatrix sneered.
"It- it's a fake! It's not the real sword!" Hermione, still short of breath, stopped for air. "I've never seen that goblin before tonight. We never went near your vault, I swear!" Tears were streaming down her cheeks, a mixture of fear, pain, and exhaustion.
"Oh, a likely story. I'm telling you child, if you must continue playing games with me," she raised her wand again.
But another voice interrupted her. "We can find out easily! Go fetch that goblin. He'll know immediately if she speaks the truth about the sword." Lucius had arrived at Bellatrix's side, and Hermione heard Draco's footsteps rushing away over the marble floor.
Hermione's relief at their distraction was short-lived, soon every doubt flooded back into her head. They didn't know the goblin, what if he told the truth? They had no reason to trust him, and he had no reason to help them. Oh, he'd surely tell the truth in the hopes that they would set him free! But Bellatrix was back and her silvery knife dug deep into her arm to finish its work. It sliced through her flesh like it was butter, and every new movement hurt more than the last. Bellatrix disappeared for a moment. Hermione heard a shout, but could not understand the words through her mask of pain. It did not take long for her to figure out what they were, because her body was immediately racked with a new bout of sheer misery. This was a new pain, one she had never thought possible before. The cruciatus curse was the most horrific pain she knew, making her lacerated arm seem like a small scratch in comparison. But it was still there nonetheless. Her slight frame writhed as the pain shook through her, every cell of her being crying out as the white-hot searing agony flowed through her. Bellatrix returned with the glinting knife in her hand, poised to make a fresh slice. The curse had not stopped, and some small part of Hermione's inquisitive mind was awed by the sheer focus and concentration needed to continue the curse without focusing her entire attention on it. But before the witch could bring down her weapon, Hermione heard a faint but sharp crack through the floor.
She awoke with a start. She was sitting up in her own bed, sweat pouring off her body and drenching her pale sheets. Hermione tried to look around the room, but all she could see were bright flashes of red and green light, a part of the memory that thankfully, she had not reached in her nightmare. So many years had passed, but it was still so vivid in her mind. The boys still had no idea how deeply that night had scarred Hermione, not only physically but mentally as well. It resonated deep within her and affected her thoughts and actions daily. Sure, Harry and Ron felt horrible and knew how much it had hurt, but to them it was just another speedbump on the road to defeating the most dangerous wizard ever. Of course complications and obstacles would occur, there's a reason he could never be defeated before! But Hermione could not rid herself of it. She would lie awake at night, shaking or crying, often too afraid to go to sleep in case it came back. The pain was real. She could feel it inside her, no matter how many times she assured herself that she was in fact safe in her own bed. Hermione could be completely fine, and then any little thing that somehow reminded her of it could send her into a complete breakdown. She was strong; she put it behind her and worked even harder towards their ultimate goal. Harry and Ron had been impressed with her recovery, and believed she was fine. And she was. She recovered physically quite quickly. But her mind was fracturing. She had been strong for such a very long time, and now she had to push this to the back, and forget about it. That could only be done for so long.
It was getting better. Or at least that's what she told herself. Every day it hurt a little bit less. These increments were miniscule, but they were there.
Hermione had left her curtains wide open when she went to bed, and they exposed the dark sky to her now. The small clock on her bedside table told her it was just past 3:00 in the morning. The sound of the rumble of tires across the gravel-covered road floated up to her window.
Lights still flashed in front of her eyes, and she knew she could not go back to sleep. She stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, her body protesting as it slowly woke up.
Her usual and most reliable source of comfort was a nice big cup of tea, but Hermione knew that would not do tonight. Opening the cupboard, she hefted a huge leather-bound book onto the counter. She flipped through the carefully bookmarked pages until she found the recipe she was searching for. It was a technically difficult formula, but once it was made correctly formed a lovely remedy for stress and anxiety. It didn't alter memory or brain functions at all, simply took some of the alarm out of the situation. Hermione's lips curved into a small smile as she collected the ingredients. The best part? It even tasted good!
Once the potion had bubbled in her cauldron for the required brewing time, Hermione gave it one last stir and poured the creamy lavender liquid into her favourite big mug. She carried with her to her own little library, where she curled up in an enormous wool blanket.