The mission had gone wrong. They had been as quiet as a church mouse, but dear Merlin it was that time of year where the trees had decided to die and shed their no longer green friends. The ground had been littered with the crispy remains of freshly fallen leaves and that's what it took. After all of the preparation, after all of the drills, after all of those years of magical training in spells, curses, charms, and even dark magic, that their downfall would be at the hand of a badly positioned footstep and the gentle crunch that gave away their position.

Everything that happened after that was a blur —partly because of how fast it occurred, but also because at the end of it all, someone had barbarically hit him over the head with something hard and heavy. He remembered flashes of red, white, blue, and green. A lot of green. He remembered someone tugging on his arm and trying to pull him along, but his feet hadn't been cooperating. He remembered feeling warm and wet liquid sliding down the side of his face, tickling his cheek as it made its way down and dangling into a drop at the base of his chin before falling onto the pavement. He remembered flexing his hand, acutely aware that his arm hurt and that his wand wasn't in its grasp. He remembered an explosion that knocked him and his teammate clean off their arses and careening onto the street, rolling until their bodies collided with the solid walls of buildings behind them.

Before Charlie blacked out, he recalled several people —perhaps four or five —gather around him, and of that group one with his wand raised. He expected to be killed, but someone new parted the group and stood next to the attacker who seemed keen on ending his life.

"Stop," ordered a female voice he thought he knew, but couldn't possibly be hearing. "It wouldn't be wise to kill him."

"Why not? He's one of them."

"Precisely. We could use him."

A scoff came from the holder of the wand that was still aimed at his bruised and bloody form. Anger was there too, but also restraint and a resigned sigh as though he didn't want to upset the woman. "Are you suggesting that we bring him home?"

So, they lived together. He must be her husband. Wonderful. A husband and wife duo had effectively rendered him and his friends useless.

"Yes," she answered him. "I've had enough of your hasty decisions and this," she pointed to Charlie, "won't be one of them. Half of his team is dead and the other half took off. If you want anything to show for it, then he comes with us. Now."

With slow blinks Charlie opened his eyes and found himself laying spread eagle with the ceiling and a dangling lightbulb as a view. He didn't have to guess to know that he was in a prison cell. He had been in one before, and it had been a bloody miracle to get him out of there. Now that he was in one again, he began weighing the options about whether luck would strike twice. However, things were a bit more dire now, weren't they? Their numbers were dwindling. As he had overheard, half of his friends were now dead, thus effectively lowering their numbers further.

Charlie swallowed a lump in his throat, his mouth dry and insufficient saliva to help ease his discomfort. Laying on a hard, concrete ground wasn't helping the situation either. With a grunt and groan, he rolled over onto his left. Despite the inside of the cell being (moderately) well-lit, the rest of the room was shrouded in darkness. The light of his cell had only partly illuminated the person who was sitting on a chair in front of the cell's bars, and what Charlie had seen was enough to make him forget about the possible concussion he had or the aches and pains his body had endured.

Charlie crawled backwards and pressed his body against the back wall of the cell. The woman watched him with a tilted head, her eyes never once leaving him, and her face one of impressive impassion considering the relationship that they once had. It was a friendship that Charlie had thought died long ago. He thought that she had died long ago. The voice that he had heard had, indeed, been hers, and so many questions were swirling within him and kickstarting a headache that pulsated behind his eyes. Charlie blinked, and he half-expected to find the witch gone, but she was still there.

"Hello, Charlie," Hermione said softly. Charlie rubbed at his eyes, but no, she was still there. This presumably dead witch, who hadn't been seen by anyone for the past twelve years, was as real as could be. It made the redhead's heart soar with relief, but also sore with agony and confusion, as he still remembered the conversation that was had moments before he became unconscious.

"H-Hermione?" Charlie croaked out. "What's going on—?"

"—You are not permitted to speak to her," a new voice said. Charlie recognized him as the one who had wanted to kill him. Antonin Dolohov, so it appeared, as he emerged from the shadows and stood next to Hermione. Charlie had already been perplexed, but he was even more so now as he recalled his tone of voice towards her. The evident care that he had for her. Even if Charlie hadn't believed what he had heard, he had to believe what he was seeing. Hermione, clad in a brown, silk, sleeveless shirt, white dress pants, and white heeled open-toed shoes, adorned in jewelry which included a set of pearl earrings and a necklace to match, and a large diamond ring on her left hand. Dolohov's own right hand was resting on Hermione's shoulder, his thumb gently caressing her skin.

"You and your lot were foolish to try to attack us," Dolohov said. "While I would prefer to kill you, my partner in crime has other ideas for you."

Charlie's eyes switched from Dolohov to Hermione when he said "partner-in-crime." It made his stomach lurch and his skin itch, albeit the latter was consequence of Dolohov's manhandling. Although it was too rough of a term for the gentle petting —the small circles of this thumb where Hermione's bra strap would be, the up and down motion of his forefinger along the side of her upper arm —it shouldn't be happening. It felt like a violation —a violation of natural order and sexual assault.

There was no flinching from Hermione. No sign that it bothered her. No clue that she was an unwilling participant in this…whatever the hell it was. The cherry on top was placing her ring hand over Dolohov's. What seemed like an attempt to stop him was merely access for him to hold it tenderly.

"You are going to be very useful, Weasley," Dolohov continued. "You are going to answer every question presented to you —after some persuading, of course."

"Do whatever you want to me. I won't tell you anything, so you might as well kill me."

Dolohov and Hermione looked at each other simultaneously. With a sigh, Hermione rose from her seat and walked over to the bars of the cell. Seeing her closer now didn't make Charlie's comprehension of what was going on here any better. He gulped, taking a moment to make his way to the bars. Maybe outside of Dolohov's line of sight he would be able to see it. Her pleas for help. The widening of her pupils. A frown. Moving lips and soundless words begging for his aid. None of that came. Instead, she lowered herself down in a squat so that she could be eye-level with him.

"Antonin, leave us be."

"What you say to him can be said in front of me."

"He has a fighter's spirit," Hermione said without turning to him. Her eyes were solely focused on Charlie as she continued, "Until you break him, he won't say anything of use to you or to me. Your presence here merely brings out defiance." She finally twisted her body so that she could meet Dolohov's gaze. He was upset, clearly, but she knew this man. She had spent the last ten years with him in various states of belonging. She was safe from harm —for now, at least. "Give me tonight, and do what you want with him tomorrow."

Dolohov continued to hold Hermione's stare for countless seconds until he let go a disgruntled huff and disappeared into the darkness behind him. Charlie was only sure that he was gone when he heard a door slam shut. He winced from the sound, but not Hermione. She merely focused on the redhead before her, a frown finally crossing her lips and making her image more like the witch he knew.

Charlie parted his lips, poised with so much to say, so many questions to ask, but everything fell short. What he did do, however, was close his eyes when Hermione put her hands through the cell bars and cupped his face. The old notion of "men don't cry" was quickly thrown through the window as tears welled up in his eyes and fell down his cheeks. She was real. She was alive. This was real. She was alive, real, and…with Dolohov?

"Why are you here?" Charlie whimpered. He sniffled and licked away his salty tears mixed with dried blood, but more continued to fall. "We thought you were dead. We looked for you for two years before we gave up hope!"

"I believe you," Hermione said calmly. One hand cupped his left cheek while her free hand ran through his hair and down the other side of his face. Even her constant swiping couldn't sway the flow of his sobbing. "I was held hostage in Spain in the beginning, then I was in France for a few years. I've only been in England for the past two. So, you see, it's not your fault that you couldn't find me. You had no idea where to look."

Charlie hung his head low, regret and disappointment replacing the physical pain that he felt. Telling him where she'd been wasn't helping. It just meant that neither he nor the rest of them were adept at following the clues to her. To be captured and held hostage all this time was—

"Why aren't you in a cell?" Charlie asked suddenly. Hermione stopped her fondling as Charlie grabbed her wrists and gently moved them from his face. "Death Eaters don't let their hostages roam free." His eyes assessed her attire yet again, the ring, the pearls, her unblemished skin, and once again reflected on the affection Dolohov had shown her amidst his annoyance with her. "They certainly don't dress their hostages so well or give them jewelry."

Hermione's face turned hard and she extricated her hands from his grip with a wriggle and rose to her full height. Looking down at him, she took a deep breath and folded her arms. "It's complicated, Charlie."

"Complicated?" Charlie repeated. "What exactly is complicated?"

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, taking a moment to lift her eyes to the ceiling. It might have been a trick of the light, but he thought that he saw her eyes water. When her attention returned, her face was steely and firm, very reminiscent of what he had seen on Death Eaters over the years. It chilled his insides. "Surviving."

"That word suggests a struggle and hardship," Charlie wet his lips. "I don't see a single wrinkle on that face of yours or that silk shirt."

In addition to her cold expression, the corner tilt of her lips further distorted her image. She let her arms fall and her manicured hands were clutching the bars. "I seem to recall a young boy in my Year at Hogwarts who struggled and had hardship while plotting the death of an already dying professor. While his clothes were pristine, there was, indeed, the creasing of the forehead, if anyone cared to notice. Everyone struggles differently, Charlie. While it may not look like it, every day I'm ashamed of the things that I've had to do to make it to where I am."

That sobered Charlie. Despite the pain in his joints, he slowly stood up, using the bars for support, his hands just above hers. He was a full head and a half taller than the witch, and yet somehow she stared him down like he was two feet. Charlie's heart was breaking, and he didn't want to ask, but he needed to know before his mind made up its own scenarios that were worse than reality.

"What have you done, Hermione?"

The brunette had taken her lip between her teeth again, but released it quickly to ask her own question. "Have you ever been captured, Charlie?"

"Three times."

"For how long?"

"A couple days for two of them. Two months for the last."

Hermione paused for a moment. She seemed to be mulling over his response before a loud chuckle bounced off of the dungeon walls as she bluntly replied, "You're a shit fighter." Charlie blinked back his surprise while she moved away from the cell and returned to her seat, lazily dangling her right ankle as she crossed her legs. "Two years, Charlie. For two years I was away from home, away from you and the others, locked away in a cell three times as small as what you're in now. I was beaten. I was hexed and cursed. I was raped. For two years. Do you know what happens to a person when brutality like that happens every day? You stop feeling. When you feel, there's pain. When you don't, when you give up, you can dissociate and pretend that you're not there and that it's not happening.

'That was the only way that I could make it. I became indifferent and I stopped fighting. Sure, it ate away at my pride and dignity at first, but it shortened the days where at first every moment was agony. That's how I spent my time in Spain. It was in France where things really changed. Whereas I had been in some random dismal location, this time I was in a Death Eater's home —Antonin's. A couple of months in I was caged with a muggle who hadn't yet learned how to cope with our unfortunate situation. She was whiny, crying, the whole lot. It wouldn't help her plight, so I told her to be quiet or that I'd make her." Hermione stilled her speech when she saw the look of horror on Charlie's face. She nearly tutted. He hadn't even heard the worst.

"It was insensitive, I know. While one of my many regrets, it was finally quiet. Antonin saw the damage that I had done the next night, and so impressed was he that I haven't been in a cell since. He wanted to put me to good use, you see, and I've been of very good use to him for the past ten years."

Charlie was numb. He only knew he was gripping the cell bars in a death grip because of the lack of color to his knuckles, but that was all. His friend, the woman whom he loved like his own flesh and blood, was describing in so little words atrocities that made his stomach wretch. And for what? So she didn't have to suffer?

"You've tortured people." It wasn't a question. It wasn't an accusation. It was a stated conclusion that Charlie had come to and wanted Hermione to say outright. He waited for several seconds, perhaps minutes, for a reply, watching her watch him as though daring the other to blink.

Hermione did blink, but her response wasn't what Charlie expected nor wanted. "I survived."

"You're justifying hurting innocent people based on survival? Have you killed them too?"

"…I survived."

"You're a monster!" Charlie shouted, jumping back from the bars when Hermione sprung from her seat, sending her chair flying into the darkness.

"I did what I had to do!" she yelled back. "I did whatever low down dirty deed I had to do to make it here. To put myself in a position to do what I could never do before. Help."

"Becoming the wife of a sadistic murderer who aids in said murders is helping?" Charlie snorted. Helping who, I wonder?"

Hermione looked down at her left hand. Her diamond ring sat on her middle finger, not her ring finger, and it glittered beautifully although the cells were mostly bathed in darkness. "Companion," she corrected before bringing her gaze back to her prisoner. "Despite Antonin's moderate interest in me, I'm still no pureblood. He would never marry me, only give me a token of a status that mimics it."

"Moderate interest?" Charlie choked. "The man bloody married you, no matter how you put it—"

"—he trapped me," Hermione cut him off. "Antonin has a fascination with the unattainable. In this case with the witch who, by blood, is unfit to be his and who pushes his buttons hard enough make him want to kill me —which he won't. This ring," she lifted her hand so that he could properly see, "has a tracer on it so that it can track me wherever I go and no," she said quickly before Charlie could speak, "it cannot be removed unless Antonin takes it off or, unpleasantly, if I want my finger to go along with it. As for my wand? It might as well belong to a temperamental teenager because it has restrictions on what magic I can produce —nothing that can potentially cause harm.

'So, you see, Charlie, you can hate me all you want for what I've done. I hate myself too. You can also scoff all you like about how lavishly I'm living, but regardless of how it looks, this is still a prison, and Antonin is my warden."

"A warden who lets his prisoner go with him on missions to kill her friends."

"Not all of my friends," she answered simply. "Last I checked that was my doing or else Antonin would have gladly severed your head from your neck."

"Are you expecting a thank you?" Charlie sneered. Hermione simply shrugged.

"It would be nice, but I think you're a bit too preoccupied with my less than savory climb to the top to do such a thing." Hermione retreated into the dark, leaving Charlie to dwell in his cell alone. He still heard her however, as her heels echoed when she walked. "I'll do what I can to keep Antonin from killing you, and hopefully it'll give you time to think and be smart about your next move."

"What, so I can end up in a pretty prison just like you?" Charlie called into the abyss. He heard her laugh, and it sent chills through his limbs.

"No," she countered, "so you can do what I failed to do on my way to this 'pretty prison.'"

Author's note: When my imagination hits, I just have to roll with it guys. Sorry for another WIP LOL.

Also, please note that as I'm writing this, secondary pairings may change, and if so, I'll add the potential pairing as I go along. I may also throw in some new tags in the summary. My mind has this fic going several different directions in terms of who Hermione eventually ends up with, so I guess it'll be a ride for all of us :D.

-WP