On her eighth day of unconsciousness, Hermione dreamed:
She was fighting desperately; kicking out at her captor, beating her fists against the arm that held her to the wall, but it was no use. The arm was like iron, and the more she struggled, the harder it squeezed her throat. Finally, her struggles began to subside, as just breathing was becoming enough of a challenge. Her vision was going dark around the edges. She could hear Harry and Ron shouting her name. It sounded like they were a hundred miles away, calling her through a long and echoing tunnel.
Finally, Voldemort turned to face her. Upon finding her dangling limp from his hand, he first gave her an irritated shake, then muttered "Stupid girl," trained his wand on her, and hissed a single word. Hermione came back to full consciousness with a start. Her hazel eyes flew open and her head, which had slumped forward, now jerked back, hitting the stone wall hard. She gasped and cried out in pain. Her eyes widened as she stared first at her attacker, then over his shoulder to where Harry and Ron stood, now several feet back from the barrier, heads bowed close together over their wands, contemplating what spells to try.
"Oh…no," she whispered. "Still…here. Why-don't-get-away."
"What a question," Voldemort replied. "And people say you are supposed to be clever. They are still here because either one of them would gladly give his life for your safety. Which is precisely why what I am about to do will be so much fun. I came here to kill Harry Potter, but now I don't think I will- not today, at any rate. No, I think today I will content myself with torturing him- by way of you."
Hermione, who was indeed a very clever girl, caught his meaning at once, and renewed her struggles frantically. Her movement caught Ron's eye, causing him to raise his head, panic, forget instantly about trying to magic the barrier away, and race back up to it to recommence pounding and kicking it while shouting her name.
Voldemort, meanwhile, finally removed his hand from Hermione's throat at the same time as he drove one knee between her legs. As air rushed back into her lungs, she slumped forward onto his chest, despite her best efforts not to. She felt like the corridor was pitching and whirling as she sucked in great desperate breaths, and was helpless to deter her attacker from shoving up her skirt, pushing aside her white cotton panties, and grasping her hips with cold, clawlike hands. Vaguely she heard a cruel, taunting voice in her ear; "Scream loudly, girl; we want to put on a first-rate show for your little friends."
Her terrified eyes sought Ron's, met them, locked on them… and then she was ripped in two. Her back arched and her head flew backward, slamming the wall yet again. She stared up at the ceiling, seeing stars explode before her eyes, and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound would come. There was no sound she could make to adequately voice the agony she felt.
But Harry and Ron were screaming for her. She could hear them, across what seemed to be a vast distance. They were no longer calling her name, no longer using words at all. Their screams were the sounds of madmen, the sounds of animals. They must feel what I feel, she thought confusedly. They must feel this same pain, only they have the breath to voice it.
In a way, she was right.
And then she had her breath back and she could scream, and she wanted to scream, she wanted that release oh so badly, and she drew in a breath to do it- and stopped. A small voice in the back of her mind, a voice beyond the pain of her ravaged body, said, DON'T. It's what he wants; it would be music to his ears; so don't, just don't. So she clenched her jaw and gritted her teeth, and she didn't scream, not once.
She couldn't control the tears, though. Tears of anguish poured down her face as she stared fixedly upward.
As she felt herself drifting back toward unconsciousness, not from lack of breath this time but from sheer volume of pain, her head rolled to the side and she found herself gazing straight into the eyes of Harry and Ron. She could see their fists still pounding the barrier, their lips still moving, but could no longer hear them at all. It was their eyes that fixated her; deep blue like the depths of the ocean, verdant green like a cool forest glen. And both blue and green eyes streamed tears that mirrored her own. I want to crawl inside, she thought disjointedly. I want to lose myself in that forest; I want to drown in that ocean.
She looked from Ron, who she had always thought would be the one she would someday offer her virginity to, over to Harry, her most beloved friend. Even through the haze of her pain her heart contracted at the sight of his face. He looked…Destroyed. Without quite being aware of what she was doing, she reached out a hand toward him in an attempt to comfort him.
And then it was over. Voldemort withdrew and stepped back, leaving her pressed against the wall, gasping, her body cold and beginning to shake as she went into shock. And now Voldemort was leaning forward toward her, his hooded face inches from her own, taunting her again.
"You weren't nearly as vocal as I could have hoped for," he murmured, "but I still must say that I never dreamed tormenting the Potter boy could be so… thoroughly enjoyable. You, my dear, were a magnificent fuck! And if I'm not much mistaken, I believe I had the honor of being your first? I do hope you'll remember me fondly." And his cruel, hissing laughter filled her ears.
She felt her face contort in disgust, and then she reacted, swiftly and without conscious thought. She spat straight into the hood that hovered inches from her face. There was a sharp intake of breath- it was a furious sound- and a hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake, grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her head forward, and smashed it back with brutal force against the wall. Twice.
White pain exploded through her head and she felt her legs give way. She slid down the wall and landed on her knees at Voldemort's feet. She felt herself listing to one side and put out an arm to stop herself. Even through her intense pain and shock, she was fiercely determined not to collapse- not all the way- not to give Voldemort that power, that mastery over her. Supporting herself on one arm, with the other hand clasped to her head, a single thought ran through her mind; I will not lie down, I will not lie down!
Because her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, she never saw the booted foot kick out toward her midsection. She felt its impact, though, as every bit of air was forcibly expelled from her lungs. Both her hands flew to wrap around her stomach, and consequently she pitched forward, doubled over, and whacked her forehead against the stone floor.
The world became a black void; she felt like she was falling, falling, even though she knew she had already hit the ground. She could hear wind rushing past her ears, but her lungs were empty; empty and burning. Air, air everywhere, she thought ridiculously, and not a breath for me.
In some far off and no longer important place, she could still hear Voldemort's taunting voice, directed this time at her friends. "We shall meet another day, Harry Potter," Voldemort was saying. "I could kill you now, but it would pleasure me more to let you watch the girl suffer and die first. And make no mistake that she will die; even now she is sinking deep into shock. And I want you to remember, boy- always remember- that the only reason this happened to her is that she's your friend."
The next instant, Voldemort was gone, and she sensed rather than saw Harry and Ron hit the ground a few feet away from her. And then Harry was there, he was right there, sobbing her name and reaching out for her, and she raised her head a few inches and looked at him, his face swimming sickly before her, and her eyes said what her mouth could not- Harry, her eyes screamed, I can't breathe!
And then he was pulling her into his arms, and his voice was right there in her ear; she could hear it even over the rushing of the wind. "Oh no," he was saying, "Oh God, oh no, you gotta breathe- Hermione, please!" Her head fell to his shoulder and suddenly she felt safe again, safe and loved, but ah God her lungs were burning and she STILL-COULDN'T-
"BREATHE!" she screamed, bolting upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. "I can't BREATHE!" Then, belying her frantic words, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath and collapsed backward- right into Harry's arms.
Harry, reflexes honed by years of playing quidditch, had dived forward from his perch on the edge of the bed, just as Hermione had begun to slump back, catching her mid-fall. She now looked up blinking, her eyes slowly coming into focus, the indistinct form above her gradually resolving itself into Harry's familiar face.
"Harry," she said, staring up in bewilderment, "I couldn't breathe."
"I know you couldn't," he replied gravely, as though what she had just said was the most sensible thing in the world, rather than a bit of incoherent nonsense. "I know you couldn't- I didn't think you'd ever breathe again. I thought for sure I had lost you, and-" twin tears, one from each of his vibrant green eyes, trickled down his face- "and I was so scared. God, Hermione, please don't ever scare me like that again!"
He laid her gently back against the pillow and kissed her forehead. "Never again," he repeated, and she felt one of his tears splash down on her face.
Hermione stared up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to get her bearings. She was in no pain; Dumbledore and Madame Pomfrey had healed the worst of the physical damage- though no magic or medicine could ever restore her shattered virginity- but she was weak and badly disoriented. Her eyes wandered slowly over the small, square, sparsely furnished room. Once she understood that she was, in fact, in the hospital wing, she was surprised not to find herself in the regular ward with its two long rows of beds. This is one of only four private hospital rooms at Hogwarts, she thought, reserved for only the most critical cases. She had read this once in "Hogwarts: A History", though she had never before been in any of the four rooms. A cold, sick feeling clenched her stomach as she realized that; the only reason they would put me in here is that they didn't expect me to wake up. They expected me to DIE!
She expelled a shaky breath as that realization dawned, and then her eyes settled on a huddled form sitting on the floor: Ron. He was next to the bed, on the side opposite Harry, leaning against the wall with his knees drawn up and his head resting on them. His arms were crisscrossed over the top of his head and he was sitting quite still.
"Ron?" she asked shakily, but he did not look up. She glanced anxiously back over to Harry, but there was no help to be found there. Overcome with emotion, Harry had lowered his face into his hands and so was unaware of her worried, questioning gaze.
She turned back toward Ron. "Ron-" she said again, tentatively, and then was struck by a vivid memory of Ron shouting at her in the corridor as Harry looked on, thunderstruck, the Marauder's Map dangling forgotten from his hands. The memory played like a silent movie- she couldn't hear what Ron was saying, but the look on his face- the pure rage…she tried hard to remember what she had done to make him so angry, but she couldn't.
She felt tears well up in her eyes. Her waking memories of the time before, during and after her attack consisted of brief, vivid images with many hazy, grey spaces in between. At the moment, she had no recollection of Ron cradling her in his arms and confessing his love. Clearly, she now thought, whatever she had done was so bad that even with all that had happened, Ron was still furious with her. She couldn't stand that thought. "Ron," she said a third time, her voice now choked with tears, "whatever I did, I'm so sorry………am- am I still not forgiven?"
At this, Ron's head shot up and his eyes locked instantly on hers. She realized with a swift intake of breath that he looked just awful- his face haggard, his eyes ringed with fatigue, their expression haunted. The look he gave her was one of pure, soul-deep anguish. Hermione's heart leapt into her throat; seeing that look on his face hurt her in an almost physical sense. She wanted to throw herself out of bed and into his arms, but lacked the strength to do so. "Ron!" she cried simply, flinging an arm out toward him.
This was the exact gesture she had made moments after the attack, and it had the same result now. Ron virtually hurled himself to her side. "How could you say that!" he cried raggedly. "How could you even think-" and then his words were broken off as he covered her face in kisses: her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose.
"I thought I'd never get to apologize," he whispered, several long seconds later, as he cupped her face in both his hands. "I lost more hope with every hour that passed…. I was so sure that you would- that I would- argh!" He shook his head as if to clear it, and took several deep breaths before speaking again.
"I thought for sure I had lost you," he said finally, echoing Harry's words of a few minutes ago, "and I was so afraid that the last memory you would have- would ever have of me- was when I was being such a- a complete asshole!"
At this, Hermione's face broke into a wan smile.
"I was so afraid," Ron continued, "that you wouldn't remember what I told you after…after…"
"It's okay, you can say it," Hermione whispered, but he shook his head.
"And you don't remember," he added, "do you?"
"No," she breathed, staring up into his eyes. "What did you say?"
For a moment, Ron struggled to speak, and it looked as if no words would come. Then he cried with surprising vehemence, "I said I'm dead in love with you! And I have been for years!"
Harry, who had raised his head again to watch this exchange, saw nearly identical expressions of astonishment appear on both Ron's and Hermione's faces. Then, with a small, incoherent cry, Hermione flung her arms around Ron's neck and pulled him fiercely down into her embrace. Neither Ron nor Hermione noticed when Harry winced as if in pain and turned away again.
Hermione used up the little strength she had in her fierce embrace of Ron and, still, holding him close, slipped into a sleep that was, for the time being at least, deep and dreamless. An entirely wholesome, healing sort of sleep. It was a good half hour before Ron ever so gently extricated himself from her grasp and sat up, facing Harry across the bed. He took one of Hermione's hands in his, and noticed that Harry took the other.
"Well," Ron said quietly but with immense relief, "she made it. She's back. So what do we do now?"
Harry looked at Ron over Hermione's sleeping form. Ron drew in his breath, taken aback by the intensity he saw in Harry's eyes. "I think you already know the answer to that question," Harry said, eyes glittering dangerously. "What we do now is track down the sorry son of a bitch who did this. What we do now, Ron, is go to bloody war!"