Yay a update, and with a long chapter!

I've noticed that people prefer the Voldemort/Hermione interactions (Who can blame you, it's so much fun writing them!) so I will write accordingly. I'm just waiting for Dear old Voldy to crawl back out of the hole he dug to hide in while he licked his wounded pride. The poor guy was not in a good place after what Hermione pulled.

This chapter gets a tad dark, so warning for that and a warning for some swearing!

Thanks for all the love by following or favoriting this story of mine, and a special thanks to AliceEnchanted and Draca (Guest reviewer) for Reviewing! You make my day :D

Xx

Pride and Terror

The spell wasn't a strong one, so she managed to break free of it before dinner. Afterwards she quietly made her way to her bedroom, wincing whenever she thought she saw movement.

When she finally got there, she collapsed on the bed, crying herself to sleep.

Before dinner she was woken by a house elf, and no matter how much she pleaded with it, it refused to recount her supposed illness to the matron of the house. So she was forced to make herself presentable, and walk downstairs to sit at a table and be ignored.

She never touched her food, too depressed to want to fill her stomach with anything, only being able to push it away and drink some water.

She carried on to drink what felt like a gallon of water before she was no longer parched. Crying really drained what little reserve she had from breakfast. Being trapped all alone somewhere had meant she hadn't eaten lunch.

Her mind and body refused to eat because of how she felt, that complete and utter sadness that seemed to grip her to the bones. It enveloped her whole being, and filled her soul with despair. But her stomach protested loudly, and clearly, by grumbling; thus interrupting the lady of the house.

"Miss Riddle, eat something." She looked up into the pointed face of Missus Rosier and saw a command in her stilted words. Unable to bring herself to explain why she didn't want to eat, or object to eating at all, she picked up her fork.

When she brought a tiny piece of chicken to her lips and put it in her mouth, the Lady of the house gave her a slight nod and continued her conversation with the Lord of the house. Hermione was very adamant about not looking across the table and meet the blue eyes of her tormentor.

Had she done so, she would have found him bored and unperturbed by whatever ailed her. He hadn't even noticed her stomach rumbling or her late arrival at dinner. He was more concerned about getting out of this dreadful setting himself, family dinner had never been a joyous occasion for him, Hermione had done nothing to change that.

Hermione continued to pick at her food, moving it around to make it look like she had eaten something. Evan was on the other side picking at his food too, but because he was bored. When they were finally excused, someone unbeknownst to the situation would find their movements choreographed. At the exact same time they put down their fork at the appropriate place, said their thank you's for the dinner, and walked in opposite directions. Even the fall of their shoes against the floor was so exact to each other that it sounded like one person was walking away, not two.

For two people so completely different in so many ways, at the core they were the same. Two kids abandoned to themselves by their parents, a hard and distant father who only cared about business, a mother who only saw their kid as a burden and spent all their time showing their affection via gifts. Two kindred hearts starved for affection, acting out against each other in a constant battle for control and power.

They only struck out when they knew they could get away with it, so far they had yet to actually have a fair fight, one being incapacitated in some way. First he could not raise his wand in defense for fear of her father, now she had no wand, and he had no patience.

Around a corner, under a servant and a ladder, skidding across an expanse of floor, choosing between three doors and fighting the tears.

Her feet clattered and swept over the floor, her legs continuing at the same breakneck pace in a rhythm that beat with her heart. Thighs were chaffing against each other, sweat and pants making them burn and turn red like she had previously only noticed when she had been swimming. Pushing against her throat, her heart pumped wildly to sustain her escape.

Mouth open to get more oxygen, and eyes darting to find routes or hiding places, she did not dare think about anything but what lay ahead. The only thing that she wanted to think about being her getaway, but the pressure and emotions of being pursued by three angry boys with wands were too much, she could think of nothing else.

Every day the same, if they saw her, she ran, if they didn't she jumped at every sound. She slept more to get enough energy to go through the day, but couldn't fall asleep at night for fear of being attacked in her sleep.

She was aware that the boys could not get into her room, but logical thinking did not pierce through fear that easily. When she finally awoke she was ushered out by house elves, because according to Lady Rosier, one does not stay in the bedroom for anything other than sleep when you were a young Lady.

How she loathed who she was, and the situation she was in. As she ran, she did not notice the tears brimming, she only succumbed to them when she once in a blue moon found a hiding space out of sight from The Boys.

Too often they were so close to her that she had no time to crawl into hidey holes or hide behind a corner until they passed her.

It had been a struggle to keep strong enough to keep escaping them, to keep her chin up in front of His parents, to avoid questions and plaster on a smile. Idly she wondered if her father would care if he found out about the boys, or if he thought it would build character.

Now there was a pattern to it all, she would get out of bed, eat breakfast in her room, and be pushed out the door only to find the boys waiting for her or have a prank set up. Then she would either get out of their hold, or at least try, or start running from them. They would laugh like Hyenas when she took off, or when they saw a chip in her armor, gloating in her misery.

When they had grown tired of tormenting her for a while, they had lunch together, sometimes His mother or father joining them or coming by to make sure everything was in order. After Lunch the boys would take off, and she would breathe out and go to the library, and stay there in peace. The library was much too close to where the Lady and Lord spent their time, and anything that happened in there might be heard by them.

For some odd reason, Hermione found herself protecting them from being found out by His parents as much as the boys avoided doing anything in front of them. There was a strange sort of camaraderie, one that Hermione loathed that she kept.

If she had looked deeper into herself she would have found that it was not for their sake that she did it. Pride was a deadly sin not because of what it made you do to others, but what it did to yourself. Her torture could have been cut short, or avoided completely had she found it in herself to utter a word of it to either adult in the house, or by writing a letter to her father, but she never did.

Since coming to the Rosier Castle she and her father had yet to make contact with each other, both too stubborn and prideful to break the silence. A small part of her wished that he would do anything towards her in retaliation for her set up with the house, but once again he disappointed her.

As always nothing made her father proud, and nothing made him set boundaries. She was neglected and left for the wolves, her only weapon snatched from her before she had a chance to use it.

The castle became well known to her as she continued to run its halls trying to escape Their clutches, all of its secrets laid out before her. Sometimes she found things by such a huge coincidence, or exactly when she was in the most dire need for refuge that she wondered if the Castle was trying to help her.

One day everything changed again.

She was sitting in the library after Lunch, thinking her torment over for the day, when suddenly she was surrounded.

With her back to the wall, the two goons; Shoulders and Lanky, blocked her exit. She looked up, trying to hide her fear, but she shifted to make herself seem smaller.

"Hello." Lanky purred in a tone that made Hermione's back shiver.

"What do you want?" her voice did not come out like a threat, the way it had done back at Hogwarts when the roles were reversed. It was shaky, doubtful, and meek, everything that made the predator instinct in the boys roar to life.

They wanted blood, her blood, and without Evan to rein them in and make sure she wasn't badly hurt; they were going to get it.

Both boys sported grins that made Hermione drop her book and look for exits.

"We just want to chat darling."

Her eyes shifted between them, jumping back and forth, waiting for an attack "About what?"

"You think you are safe in here don't you?" Shoulders said, hunching over to tower above her more than before. Her form was completely encased in his shadow now, and she feared for her safety more than ever.

Nothing she said would mean escape, and nothing she did could stop them from whatever they planned to do.

The stacks of books to her left, the ones she had been dying to read, was set in flames. Lanky's wand was outlined against the flicker of the flames that were mirrored in his eyes. Hermione felt her breath quicken in fear, and she looked over to Shoulders who suddenly surged forward and hit her in the eye.

They continued like this, Lanky burning books or tearing them up in front of her, while Shoulders beat her. She began to feel tired and wished for the blackness to take her once again, something she found herself doing often in Castle Rosier. But before it could once again descend on her The Son came and stopped them from continuing, leaving her beaten in a pile of destroyed books.

Crying there, she never noticed him looking back at her, and how his eyes turned sad for a second.

When she regained her bearings she looked at the book closest to her, it was the only one she had managed to get with her from back home, her favorite book since she was eight. As she picked it up with trembling hands to check if there was anything left she could salvage she felt the familiar burn of tears in her eyes.

Destroyed, completely and utterly with no hope to salvage even a single page, the book felt light in her arms.

Suddenly something inside her shifted, where before there was only misery, now Hermione felt red hot anger fill her soul, bursting forward from the darkness, filling the deep dark corners she denied having. There was something sweet about the way only anger remained, her pity party was over.

Fuck them all, Hermione was not going to let this continue, from now on she was going to be the true Slytherin nobody saw her as. Time to stop feeling sorry for herself and start to do something about it.