Her feet left indentations in the plush carpeting, leaving shallow slipper-shaped tracks in her wake. Glancing behind her at the evenly spaced, straight lines of her travel, they seemed like the only evidence of herself amidst the grandeur of her parents' lives. And, of course, the only mark she could make was one they would scorn, would be bothered by, and would certainly have vacuumed up by tomorrow. The world was in color once more, but it didn't matter. There was every chance she might die tonight, and Hermione refused to let go of her life without feeling it. Everything was detached, but it was becoming less so by the minute, and yet the part of her that was terrified was still very much over shadowed by the part that was logical.
Her father walked ahead of her; the man that was supposed to protect her, leading her intentionally to a place where only pain dwelled. The pain would be brought by his hand, and this time she would feel it. This time, like no other time, she would remember. And every time she began to forget, she would remind herself; she deserved this punishment, her carelessness had brought it upon her. If she did not wish to live out her life ignorant of who she was, having wasted every moment of study, every hope or ambition, she could not afford mistakes. And if this, if what was coming, could not serve to remind her of the cost of failure, then she deserved every minute of mindless, unknowing hell that the rest of her life would be.
Her feet changed slippers mindlessly, donning the green ones of the east wing, following, dreading, and contemplating. Even knowing what would come, even feeling the remnants of the last time, tearing away as she moved, she couldn't bring up the proper fear as she walked the brightly-lit halls. And then, at her fathers' gesture, she was discarding the slippers, walking barefoot into the garage. She stood still, and did not move, and did not tremble.
"Get the belt, Hermione."
His voice, this time, was little more than a whisper. Her mind and body begged for the whiteness, begged to not have to endure the humiliation that was to come, but she silenced them. You deserve this. She crossed the room, and removed the belt from its peg, forcing her hand to steady as she passed the instrument of pain to her tormentor. You were careless. He swung it in his hand, slightly, cracking it against the floor once. You have only one last chance, and this, or so you must hope, is enough to make even one as worthless as you remember.
"Take off your clothes."
Her hands moved automatically, but she could only make them move slowly. Her shirt was only halfway up her back when the strike came.
Whoosh-snap "Now! Or I will whip you hard enough to remove them!"
She flung them from her, though her body screamed in protest, and her mind begged her to leave them on, to leave a buffer between the sting and her bare flesh.
Whoosh-snap "Kneel."
It was an unnecessary command. Even her conscious mind knew the drill. Still, he repeated the litany of commands that ruled every punishment.
Whoosh-snap "You will remain kneeling." Whoosh-snap "You will not stand, you will not sit, you will not raise or move your hands from your sides. You will not cry out." Whoosh-SNAP
Unbidden, a moan rose to meet the harsher crack of the whip that followed his words. She swallowed it back too late, and, for the first time that night, tasted true fear. Whoosh-SNAP! "You will not vocalize or move whatsoever!" And then he fell silent, but that was worse.
Whoosh-snap. Whoosh-snap. Whoosh-snap.
You will remember. Her mind whispered.
You will, Whoosh-snap! You will, Whoosh-snap! You will, Whoosh-snap!
You WILL! Whoosh-SNAP!
You WILL! Whoosh-SNAP!
You WILL! Whoosh-SNAP!
In the echoing silence of the mostly-empty garage, the screams and pleas of her mind were nearly as loud as the crack of the whip, or the occasional grunt of her protector-turned-tormentor.
The strikes came swifter, now. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!
The white haze threatened at the edges of her mind, time and again, but she pushed it back, just as often, though the pain had long since blurred her vision into meaningless dark shapes. It was her own personal hell, and it was of her own making.
You will not fail. She demanded of herself. You will not let them win. You will remember every moment of this.
And still the crack of the whip echoed, burning into her flesh like an endless litany of all her faults.
SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! CRACK! SNAP! CRACK! SNAP! SNAP! CRACK! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
"You will follow all of our directions, this summer, but we will not see you. We will not have to see you. Your mother and I decided it would teach the lesson best if magic were involved in your punishment, and purchased this device by owl-order, amusingly enough. It is apparently used by bosses who think their employees lazy. It will track, for us, the hours you spend working. Every full minute in which you work will count, but every minute in which you do not work will not count. It will keep a nice, tidy running total of your time and money earned. You will bring us a contract, next Monday morning, and we will all sign, so that you cannot say you weren't warned, so that you will know you have earned it when you fail. You will not use any magic on it, and we will check."
THUD.
Oh, god.
"And now, I will remind you of your place. Do not forget again, worthless, idiotic freak."
CRACK! CRACK! THUD.
CRACK! CRACK!
Oh, god… oh, no… oh please….
CRACK! THUD. Whump. THUD. CRACK! CRACK!
I won't … I swear…never …never forget… not again…
CRACK! THUD. CRACK! Whump, THUD. CRACK! Whump. THUD. Whump. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! THUD. THUD. CRACK!
Please…oh please…
Please… let me…live…
Want… to… to… to… live…
Not… here…
Not… die…not…here…now…no…no… no… …please… …no……not here…not now…
……………no…………
…please………
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
It was warm.
So, so warm. And light – she could feel the sunlight, feel the light that she never thought she'd feel again, gently caressing her skin.
Nothing hurt, not specifically, but her whole body was one mass of ache. That, and she hadn't moved yet. It would be worse if she moved.
Still, it didn't ache as bad as it ought. And the surface below her felt far softer than she ever remembered the garage floor to.
Perhaps it was just the joy of living? Of finding herself alive?
Somehow, she didn't think so.
Only one way to find out, really.
Cautiously, she moved her index finger. Nothing, beyond the former ache. Curious, she shifted her whole hand – stabbing pains of remaining cuts in her arms arched through her like fire, but … nothing more. Nothing.
Intrigued, now, she shifted her head on the pillow – WAIT! Pillow? Her eyes shot open – only to be met with the sight of white ceiling. White ceiling, and, in her peripheral vision, windows and a desk and dresser that looked awfully familiar.
Not daring to move her head, her gaze darted around, taking in farmiliar surroundings, lighting on the door just in time to see it begin to swing open. Frightened of what it might mean, for good or for ill, she clamped her eyes back shut.
A low chuckle met her ears. "Awake at last, are you?" Came a familiar voice.
Draco Malfoy. She couldn't fight back the shiver that greeted hearing the voice of the would-be Death Eater. The summer had just officially gotten worse.
His voice dripped with sarcasm when he spoke. "So, Muggles are people, too, and perfectly normal, eh?"
By now she was outright shaking, unable to feel anything except an all-consuming fear.
But his voice was gentle when it came again. "Hey, now, calm down. I didn't mean it that way. Don't worry. Shush. I'm not going to eat you, alright?"
"Wh-w-why?"
"Because you're not dead."
The response threw her enough off track that she left her fear behind. "Huh?"
"You know… death eater, eat death, you're not dead…." He sighed. "It was a joke."
Cautiously, she opened her eyes again, only to see her worst enemy staring at her, and looking nothing like himself. Instead of hate and scorn, his face was lined with worry and softened with compassion. Where he would usually appear perfectly tidy and entirely in control, he carried the haggard appearance of someone who hadn't slept in days, and had spent the entire time working.
"Wha… How - ? Why?" She asked.
"I didn't want you to go and die on me, not before I got the chance to talk to you, and apologize, first." He said, sounding less like himself than ever, though the tone of his voice was right.
She just stared at him.
He sighed. "I found out what your parents were going to do, or, well, I suspected what might happen. I thought I'd come and find out if I was right, and, well, I was. I – it's not like I could have just left you there. I know we've had our problems in the past, but –"
"What's in it for you?" She interrupted him.
He hesitated just a moment too long before replying. "Nothing."
She snorted, though she quickly regretted the action, as it really rather hurt. In a strained voice, she replied. "I don't believe that for a minute."
His sigh was deeper, this time. "Look, I'll tell you all about it later. But – I want you to know, I would've done it anyways, even if it weren't… Nevermind. We'll get to that. How do you feel?"
"Hurts." She muttered. "Though – I don't think it's as bad as it should be."
"Here." He handed her a bluish-colored vial.
Hermione looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.
"It's not poison!" He said, exasperatedly. "If I'd wanted to kill you, I'd've done it some time in the last three days while you were unconscious. Better yet, I would've just left you where you were, and you would've died on your own."
All things considered, he made sense. Besides which, she couldn't really bring herself to care. Still, she sniffed it for a second before swallowing the entire contents of the vial. It likely tasted horrid, but the relief she felt was so immense that she couldn't have brought herself to notice. Like ice flowing through her veins in place of fire, melting and cooling and soothing where it touched, it eased every ache and pain she felt. Strong hands, surprisingly so, helped her to sit up, propping pillows behind her head.
But as the pain disappeared, logic returned. "Wait – my parents… if they see you…"
"Maybe I should begin at the beginning." Draco responded. "I have a lot to tell you, really, but you should know, for now, that we're quite safe. And, that I'm not the only one here. Crabbe is here as well, keeping watch, and Blaise was here, earlier, and might come back. None of us are here to harm you."
"Um… okay. I suppose" Hermione paused, but everything was too weird to really sort anything out just now. "I suppose I can accept that."
"Good."
"But I want to know – and from the beginning – exactly why you're here, and why you think I should trust you."
Draco nodded. "I expected as much. Let me tell you, first off, that I'm not loyal to the Dark Lord. Myself, Blaise, Crabbe and a couple of others from other years in my house have sort of… banded together, and we're not going to follow in our fathers' footsteps. Some others, like Pansy and Goyle, agree with us, and will keep our secret, but refuse to take an active role – both of them are destined for an inactive form of service to the Dark Lord, and don't want to risk it. Pansy's only role is to marry a Death Eater, and Goyle is intended to be a herbologist, with no greater role than supplying dangerous ingredients now and again." Draco paused a moment. "Most of us, though, don't have that luxury."
"Since the Dark Lord returned, our families have changed, fathers who we once looked up to turning cruel, or even abusive." Shifting, Draco pulled up a sleeve from his long-sleeved shirt, and showing a series of scars that looked not unlike her own arm when a glamour was no longer present. "Not only that, but we see what the Dark Lord does to them for their loyalty - coming home from every meeting weak, trembling, and in pain. We want no part of that."
Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing, or what she'd seen, but it certainly made sense. She nodded for Draco to continue.
"For the last year, we've been looking for a way to prove it to the side of the light. You see, we have to have protection from the light, if we defy our parents, or it will be… unpleasant. I'm quite sure you know what I mean."
Hermione nodded. That, she understood.
"Our plans began to be put into play last week. We visited Potter, at his relatives house, but it didn't go over very well."
Hermione snorted. No, she didn't imagine it would have.
"We only got to talk to him a few minutes, as he was outside playing house-elf to the muggles. He was exceptionally depressed, entirely unwilling to trust us, but we thought we were making some headway – until, that is, his Uncle came outside to check on him. He screamed at us and ordered us out of his yard, and then rounded on Potter. I didn't hear what his punishment was to be, but when we came back that evening and flew up to his window, he refused to talk to us."
Worry for Harry crawled into Hermione's belly, and she suddenly felt selfish for not having even given thought to her friend so far this summer. What if his summer were going as badly as her own? It must've shown on her face, though, because Draco added.
"Don't worry, it wasn't anything like that. We've watched them most of the summer so far, actually, and, while they hate him and don't give him much to eat, I've never seen them raise a hand against him."
Hermione sighed with relief. "So, you're hoping that, by saving me, I'll recommend you to the side of light. I certainly owe you, at least that much. Still, you haven't told me how you knew to come."
"It started last Sunday morning…."