Coming back to consciousness is slow and painful. The first thing she's aware of is the darkness that surrounds her whether her eyes are open or not. Next, it's the splitting headache that seems as if her skull is being cleaved in two. Then, she's painfully aware of quaking nerves throughout her body. The stench of mildew. The slow drip of water and its gentle splash to the ground. Her feet are bare against a cold surface – cement, probably – and her wrists are bound behind her back with something magical that stings every time she tries to pull her hands apart.
With her chin to her chest, Hermione takes deep breaths through her mouth. There's a faint taste of rust on her lips and the tang of still-wet blood where her lip splits in two. Her shoulders ache where they're pulled back behind the metal chair she's stuck in. The Valknut over her heart throbs painfully as if being stabbed.
If there's anyone in the room with her, they are utterly quiet. No breathing, no shuffling feet, no movement at all.
She's alone, bleeding, restrained, and terrified.
As her eyes adjust to the darkness, the room around her becomes clearer. She still can't see far ahead of her, but as her pounding head lifts from her chest, Hermione can make out a four by four room and what appears to be a set of stairs leading to another floor. She's in a cellar, she's sure of it. But where?
Hermione sniffs at the air and gags on the overpowering, moldy stench. It's stale and musty with a faint hint of sweat and dirt. It's an unused room or a room that's so aged that it's been forgotten for a very long time. There are metal shelves across from her and blurry trinkets of various sizes set atop them. Nothing denoting magic that she can tell, but then if this place is abandoned, it's possible that all of the magic has been drained from this place.
The last thing she remembers – now that's even harder to recollect.
Draco, freshly showered, stole a kiss from her before leaving for work. Hermione followed suit, cleaned up from a night with her partners, the excitement of a new sort of relationship still thrumming through her, and prepared to collect the children from Andromeda's home.
She hadn't made it into the floo.
A shock of red hair stepped out as she made to step in. His eyes were blank. His wand wrapped tightly in his hand. She was stunned so quickly that she couldn't even grab her wand. When she came to, she was here. Covered in blood and dirt. She assumes she's been dragged, perhaps even apparated and dropped to the ground. Her body aches, muscles sore, joints stiff.
"You're awake."
That voice. His voice.
No longer loving. No longer gentle.
Hermione shakes when she hears it. Her mouth goes dry and her tongue sticks to its roof as she tries to say something – anything – to him. Why? How? Haven't you done enough?
"I was afraid you weren't going to wake up."
She blinks, trying to make out the finer details of his tall, broad frame. He's wearing a black cloak from the hollow of his throat to the tips of his boots. He's covered in dirt and blood, streaks of it on every uncovered piece of freckled flesh that she can see. It's like he's rolled around in it, caked himself in it as if it were camouflage.
"I'm so happy that you're awake."
"Why?" She finally croaks a word and coughs against the raw scratching in her throat.
"You hurt me," he whispers monotonously and approaches her with slow, steady steps. His body towers over hers and she has to crane her sore neck to make eye contact.
The scent of dark magic permeates the space around him and licks at the bond mark on her chest. It fights against it, a tug inward toward her heart, as if a warning for her to run away. She can't, she's stuck, and she's entirely at the mercy of the angry wizard standing over her.
"Ronald," she whispers, ignoring the way his name rips at the inflamed tissue in her throat. "Have you been cursed?"
Ron's wand hand rises, the tip of wood angled down toward her chest. He utters the word, but as thunder rushes through her ears, Hermione doesn't hear it. Merlin, does she feel it, though, as her nerves light on fire and quake under his spell. Her muscles rip apart and stitch themselves back together over and over again. Her body is limp as it convulses. She drools blood out the side of her mouth.
When she comes to again, a scream fills her ears and it takes her far too long to realize that it's her own shouting that roused her from unconsciousness.
She's crying now. Salty tears streaming down her cheeks and burning the place on her lip where it's split. If he cares, he doesn't show it. His wand pokes into the flesh on her shoulder and he twists the wood into the bone. A curse rocks her body and she loses consciousness once again.
A hand caresses her jaw.
Hermione seeks out the warmth of it, rubs her cheek against the soft pad of its palm and allows herself to settle into it. But then it's tensed around her, jagged nails snagging against her skin. Crescent moons scarred into her cheek. Her jaw opens under the pressure of his vice-like hold. For a moment, she's terrified he's going to shove a potion down her throat. Instead, he shoves her face back and takes a step away from her.
From the pocket of his robes, he withdraws a small, black orb. There's a slight golden glow, shimmering and swirling within it. It reminds her of magic, of what settled around her as she, Harry, and Draco—
She tries to open her mouth to ask him what it is, but the words stick to the slick blood in her mouth. Hermione spits on the ground and pants against the heavy pressure in her chest. As she winces, the golden magic swirls in the sphere. It glows bright for a moment and then dulls again.
"What – are you – doing?" The words are slurred, she can't see straight anymore. Her body shakes and twitches and she's sure she's going to die here by his hand. "Ron – please—"
"You fucking left me!" His voice tears through the room and bounces off the cement walls. Her ears ring under the volume of it.
Hermione lifts her chin. "You made it easy."
His eyes widen. His wand lifts again.
"Ron!" His name pours like a plea from her lips. "Ron, please – please, stop. You don't want to do this."
"I want to do this." The words are plain. Dull. His eyes blink slowly and his lips twist. "I have to do this."
"Ron!" Hermione twists, barely able to struggle against the binds. The only strength she has is the pulsing magic at her chest. It's reaching out to the orb that Ron holds in his hand. She reaches back, tries to force her magic to it, envisions that it provides her energy.
"Think of the children, Ron. Rosie and Hugo—"
He strikes down with his wand hand, knuckles crunching against her face. Her head snaps to the side and she sobs as blood runs out of her mouth and nose. When she lifts her head again, she has to beg, has to try whatever she can, he's staring down at her blankly.
"Hugo, he looks up to you so much, Ron." She's crying and can't stop the flood as it pours out of her. "And Rosie – your little girl, Ron. She loves you more than anything!"
Something registers in his eyes. The dull blue shifts and she can see Ron gazing back at her for a split second before he's gone again. That's when she knows beyond a reasonable doubt – he's been Imperioused.
"Crucio!"
It hits her again, square in the chest. She slumps forward in the metal chair and is only held up by the way her arms are wound around the metal chair. The magic of the restraints burns her skin but she can't stop fighting against it. There are noises coming from her, uncontrollable sobs and whimpers that fill the space surrounding them.
When she next opens her eyes, the sphere is in her line of vision and the golden magic that swirls within is brighter and thicker. The thrum of magic that she's felt in the mark on her chest is growing fainter and she wonders if the orb is meant to drain her – and why. Her brain is groggy but Hermione tries to push through it, reach Ron, make this stop.
"Ron, please fight this," she begs him, wincing as every word that leaves her hurts. Her throat swells, her heart pounds in her chest. Hermione is sure that her magic is almost depleted and she's growing increasingly weak. She needs him to snap out of it. She needs him to see her. "Ron. Think about your family, your children. The day that Rosie was born, do you remember? She only had eyes for you – Ron, please!"
Something inside her snaps and she cries out against the pain.
Ron's grip on the orb tightens as it flares golden and glows outwardly against his hand.
"Hermione—" His voice is harsh, rough, worried. "Fuck, Godric's balls, Hermione – what's happening?"
He kneels down in front of her and she sags against her binds. Every breath that leaves her is painful, stabbing into her ribs like a knife. His hand finds her bruised jaw again and she flinches away. For a moment, his eyes widen but then he steels his expression and takes stock of all her injuries without touching her.
"What is this? What – I was at that pub and—"
"You were mad about Harry and Draco," she whispers.
"Harry and Draco weren't there." He looks confused, a notch forming between his heavy brows. "There was a bloke in a—"
Ron crumples to the ground at her feet. His head cracks against a stone on the ground. The orb rolls out of his slackened hand and across the floor.
"That's about enough of that."
Hermione lifts her gaze from Ron's unconscious body and finds an imposing, stocky figure with shaggy black hair and a menacing expression standing at the base of the stairs. His foot stops the orb as it rolls straight to him and he leans down to grab it. His fingers curl around it possessively.
"Gryffindors, Weasleys," he spits the words with a mirthless snort. "Bloody useless oafs. This one, though, his anger. It was too perfect."
Every instinct inside of her screams to run, fight, do what she has to do to get away now. But she's stuck watching as he approaches. His eyes aren't even on her; he's watching the sphere with an almost loving gaze. She wants to vomit, but instead coughs up blood.
There's something familiar about him when her eyes finally focus ahead. For a moment, her breathing seizes in her chest and her eyes flicker down to the cursed Mudblood scar on her arm. He's different, he's not as mad in the eyes as Bellatrix's husband. There's a sinister glint, dark and nesting behind his gaze.
Harry had said that Rodolphus is dead.
She gasps.
The brother.
"So many stories of the Mudblood – Brightest Witch of Her Age — and all that rot." He growls as he bends and stares right into her eyes. He reeks like whiskey and must. His teeth are crooked and starting to decay. When he breathes on her, a putrid smell roils her stomach. "You're nothing but a disgusting excuse for a girl who got lucky that Mudblood sympathizers run the country."
He barks a laugh and she jumps at the sound. Perhaps he is mad.
She feels the magic inside the orb swirling around, like it's got a mind of its own and is trying to reach her. There's nothing she can do to get to it, not without the use of her hands. The thrum of her own magic is still dwindling even as the orb brightens and shines.
"Do you know what this is?" He holds it up to her eyes so that she has a clear view of it. It's round and black, except for the shimmering gold inside of it. It's smooth and encased in thick glass. Quite beautiful and undeserved of his grubby hands touching it.
Hermione shakes her head and a sharp jolt shoots down the side of her neck. She grits her teeth against the pain but refuses to close her eyes longer than a blink.
"It's a magic vessel." He spins it around carefully in his fingers to give her a three-sixty look at it. "It belonged to my brother."
Her mind is fuzzy. Concentrating on his words, connecting the dots, it all comes to her slowly. Bellatrix and her husband, the orb, there's something she should be understanding from his words, but it's just out of her reach. Hermione takes a deep breath and it rattles in her chest.
"Bella was meant to use it with him, but she went mad with the magic." Rabastan's growl sent fear cascading through her. She's entirely at his mercy and it doesn't seem as if he has a good hold on his mental stability. "And then they went to prison for torturing those aurors. Bloody useless, the three of them."
Hermione's eyes dart to Ron's prone form on the floor. God, she wishes he'd wake up. Let her loose. Give her a fighting chance. She struggles against her binds again and winces as it shocks her wrists.
"But, when I saw your photo with the Malfoy boy, I knew we had another chance." His menacing laugh forces gooseflesh all over her body.
Malfoy. She holds back a sob; she needs him, needs Harry, needs someone. But she's alone and she's sure she's going to die. The children – at the thought, tears leak out of her eyes and forge a path down her bruised and bloody cheek.
"I found your ginger drunk in a pub," Rabastan continues with no care for her tears. "It's amazing how easy it is to control someone who allows their emotions to control them."
Hermione glances to Ron again and wonders if she can reach her foot over to kick him. He's utterly still and just out of reach. There's nothing she can do but sit and listen to Lestrange unload his tale and she doesn't want to hear it.
"You don't have to do this," she tries quietly, unable to project her voice. Her windpipe is drier than a desert and she's sure that she's going to lose her voice. A hazy blackness is seeping into her vision. She's fighting against it to keep from losing consciousness again.
"I do!" He shouts and it pierces through her. "This was our right, our fate. I was supposed to be at their sides, right there beside them as they marched with The Dark Lord and—"
"You were jealous."
She should hold her tongue, but the words burst from her regardless. His hand flies up above her and she winces before it collides with her cheek. It only fuels her on and she holds onto her rage because it might be the only thing to keep her holding on.
"The fourth wheel to a—much—more powerful magic." She flinches away from him, but he doesn't bring his hand down. Instead, he casts Crucio and her body twitches under it.
"—they were all blues. And the magic was consumed too quickly." Rabastan backs away from her and places the sphere on the shelf. She thinks he was talking through her torture, unsure what he's on about until he suddenly continues. "My brother didn't know what the magic did, what the colors were for, but I think I know now."
Hermione grasps at the information he's giving her. She tries so hard to connect what he's saying to everything she knows about paramours and triad magic. If she ever gets out of here, she needs this and if Rabastan gets away, Harry needs to know.
Rabastan kicks Ron's limp body and sneers down at him. "And Weasley here was only too keen to blabber on about how he found you with Malfoy and Potter. When I saw the faint glow on your skin at the pub, I knew—"
"You were at Cerberus?" She rasps and attempts to clear her throat, with no success. "You had Ron under the Imperious then, didn't you?"
"How else was I going to get my vessel from Potter's office?" Rabastan toes Ron's body over so that his peaceful, unconscious face is pointed at the ceiling. "He just couldn't shut his mouth. Told me all about where you're living, what you're up to, how he couldn't believe his best mate would betray him by sleeping with his ex-wife."
He clicks his tongue and turns back to Hermione.
"He's worn out his usefulness now."
Rabastan's arm rises above his head. A green spark lights the tip of his wand. A flourishing movement slices through the air.
"Avada Kedav—"
"Expelliarmus!"
Rabastan's wand jumps from his hand and flies across the room. Harry captures it skillfully and breaks it in half.
"You made a massive mistake, Lestrange." Draco's voice hisses through gritted teeth. His gray eyes are blown wide and focused solely on her face.
Hermione's heart leaps into her throat. She tries to get free, twists and turns, but she's stuck to the damn chair and it's so painful. She knows she's safe, knows they'll get her out of here, and the relief of it all overtakes her.
She slumps in the chair and barely registers the light of a new spell brightening the room.
Harry's voice calls her name, but she's already gone.