To those of you who may think that Hermione is out of character because she
isn't bravely fighting off her captors, I want you to think about what
courage really is. There is an excellent story about this very point by
Tim O'Brien in The Things They Carried. The story is called Speaking of
Courage. Read it. In fact, if you are still in high school, read it now!
Your English teacher will thank me.
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Hermione jerked awake. Covered in a cold sweat, the dreams haunted her still.
She had dreamed of being entombed. The darkness was so thick it was suffocating. She could feel it filling her lungs, a soupy coagulation. She was drowning in the darkness.
There was a faint scuttling sound that steadily grew. She could hear them coming, thousands of insects swarming. Before she could even think to scream they were upon her, biting, tearing. She could feel the worms, boring into her skin. The beetles hissed like serpents in her ears.
She shook her head firmly to try to drive away the images, but the transition from nightmare to reality had been minimal. Still dark. Still cold. She ran her hands over her exposed skin to convince herself that it was intact. A small voice whispered to her, a voice that was becoming harder and harder to ignore. Maybe she hadn't really woken up at all. Maybe she was still in the dream. Or even worse, maybe this was the dream. Maybe she really was slowly being eaten alive.
To her closest estimation, Hermione had been held for four days, at least that was the number of times they had fed her.
Everyday it was the same. Her stomach would begin to cramp tightly. And then the nausea would set in. Low at first, but steadily growing. Her head would begin to throb, the slow steady waltz of the first day. She would begin to wonder how long it took a body to start to digest itself.
And then, she would begin to wonder if they had forgotten about her. If there was even anyone still out there to remember. What if they had left? Would anyone ever find her in time? Or when they finally did come, would only a skeleton remain? Alone in the darkness, these things were easy to believe.
But eventually, they always came. The door would swing open on its hinges, and a shape would appear. The man, she was never sure if it was the same man, would place a bowl and glass on the floor for her. Her evening meal consisted of the remains of her captor's dinners. It closely resembled slop that would be fed to a hog, having the consistency of sludge. Most often, the bowl was filled with bread crusts, some kind of stew, and the occasional unidentifiable lump. For once she was thankful for what the darkness hid.
She would eat quickly, shoveling the food into her mouth with her bare hands. She did not pause to think about the possibility of poisons or potions being hidden in the food. She was too hungry to care. When the bowl was emptied, her tongue would clean every inch of the inner surface.
She was given one glass of luke-warm tap water per day. But to Hermione, it was more exquisite than the finest wine. She would roll it around the inside of her mouth, savoring the feeling of it against her dry cracked lips.
She had thought valiantly of escape at first, wracking her brain for spells that would demolish the door. She had settled on one that had seemed appropriate, had almost spoken the words, when something stopped her.
Fear, an icy hand gripping her heart. She could break down the door, but then what. Naked, wandless, how effective would she be against any adversaries? She did not even know how many held her. Or where she was. Or how to get back to Hogwarts in the middle of the night. Somehow it was hard to think of it as being bright and sunny outside of her prison.
She couldn't describe what happened to her then. It was as if the cage seemed to shrink, holding her tighter. It became more permanent.
So instead she would sit and imagine. The door would burst open, shattering from the force. A body was silhouetted against the light, tall and lean, but strong. Ron would cross the room to her, holding her tightly against his chest. She could smell him, fresh and clean. She could feel the heat of his body through his robes. He would whisper words of comfort, soft and sweet in her ears. And she would feel the safety of his embrace, and the love.
Ron was not always her rescuer. Sometimes it was Harry, his eyes flashing brightly in the darkness, hair permanently ruffled. Sometimes it was even Dumbledore. Hermione was surprised by the strength in his aged hands. But mostly it was Ron.
How she hated herself for these fantasies. She should be planning her escape, not dreaming of her rescue. She had always thought or herself as brave, but sometimes she felt that the bravest thing she could do was open her eyes, to face another day.
She would no longer count quietly to her self. That had ended the second day. She had been curled up on the floor, her knees against her chest, softly murmuring the words when she heard had it. Not the gruff voice that had met her pleas the first day, but a smooth silky voice. No, not silky, slimy. She felt dirty just listening to it.
"Two thousand three hundred and forty-nine... Two thousand three hundred and fifty... Two thousand three hundred and fifty-one." It cooed. Sickly-sweet, the voice seemed to slither under the door, and crawl across her ears. "Why do you count little witch? Do you still believe that they come?" Hermione crawled to the far wall, trying to distance herself from the voice. "Why would anyone search for a filthy little mudblood like you?" Hermione tried to plug her ears, but with her wrists bound she found that she could cover only one. And still, the voice continued to hiss.
Hermione had gone two days without hearing that voice. She had moved carefully, trying to limit the noise that she made. She did not cry, for fear that they would hear her. She hardly breathed, the sound of her exhalation echoing in her ears.
But on the fourth day, she heard it again, calling to her from under the door. "Has the darkness taken you yet little witch? The darkness does funny things to a person. Alone in the never ending night, your imagination begins to play tricks on you."
Hermione crawled away from the voice, trying to hide from the sound. The voice washed over her, covering her in filth. "They still have not come for you mudblood. Do you wonder if they even know that you are gone? Do they know what haunts your dreams?" Hermione chocked back a sob. The words were to close to those questions that she had asked herself.
"Alone in the darkness little witch. Are you lonely?" She could hear the sneer in his voice. She wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to make herself as small as possible. "What scares you most little witch," the voice purred. "The shadows lurking in your own mind, or the Boogeyman outside your door?"
.........................................................................................................
Hermione jerked awake. Covered in a cold sweat, the dreams haunted her still.
She had dreamed of being entombed. The darkness was so thick it was suffocating. She could feel it filling her lungs, a soupy coagulation. She was drowning in the darkness.
There was a faint scuttling sound that steadily grew. She could hear them coming, thousands of insects swarming. Before she could even think to scream they were upon her, biting, tearing. She could feel the worms, boring into her skin. The beetles hissed like serpents in her ears.
She shook her head firmly to try to drive away the images, but the transition from nightmare to reality had been minimal. Still dark. Still cold. She ran her hands over her exposed skin to convince herself that it was intact. A small voice whispered to her, a voice that was becoming harder and harder to ignore. Maybe she hadn't really woken up at all. Maybe she was still in the dream. Or even worse, maybe this was the dream. Maybe she really was slowly being eaten alive.
To her closest estimation, Hermione had been held for four days, at least that was the number of times they had fed her.
Everyday it was the same. Her stomach would begin to cramp tightly. And then the nausea would set in. Low at first, but steadily growing. Her head would begin to throb, the slow steady waltz of the first day. She would begin to wonder how long it took a body to start to digest itself.
And then, she would begin to wonder if they had forgotten about her. If there was even anyone still out there to remember. What if they had left? Would anyone ever find her in time? Or when they finally did come, would only a skeleton remain? Alone in the darkness, these things were easy to believe.
But eventually, they always came. The door would swing open on its hinges, and a shape would appear. The man, she was never sure if it was the same man, would place a bowl and glass on the floor for her. Her evening meal consisted of the remains of her captor's dinners. It closely resembled slop that would be fed to a hog, having the consistency of sludge. Most often, the bowl was filled with bread crusts, some kind of stew, and the occasional unidentifiable lump. For once she was thankful for what the darkness hid.
She would eat quickly, shoveling the food into her mouth with her bare hands. She did not pause to think about the possibility of poisons or potions being hidden in the food. She was too hungry to care. When the bowl was emptied, her tongue would clean every inch of the inner surface.
She was given one glass of luke-warm tap water per day. But to Hermione, it was more exquisite than the finest wine. She would roll it around the inside of her mouth, savoring the feeling of it against her dry cracked lips.
She had thought valiantly of escape at first, wracking her brain for spells that would demolish the door. She had settled on one that had seemed appropriate, had almost spoken the words, when something stopped her.
Fear, an icy hand gripping her heart. She could break down the door, but then what. Naked, wandless, how effective would she be against any adversaries? She did not even know how many held her. Or where she was. Or how to get back to Hogwarts in the middle of the night. Somehow it was hard to think of it as being bright and sunny outside of her prison.
She couldn't describe what happened to her then. It was as if the cage seemed to shrink, holding her tighter. It became more permanent.
So instead she would sit and imagine. The door would burst open, shattering from the force. A body was silhouetted against the light, tall and lean, but strong. Ron would cross the room to her, holding her tightly against his chest. She could smell him, fresh and clean. She could feel the heat of his body through his robes. He would whisper words of comfort, soft and sweet in her ears. And she would feel the safety of his embrace, and the love.
Ron was not always her rescuer. Sometimes it was Harry, his eyes flashing brightly in the darkness, hair permanently ruffled. Sometimes it was even Dumbledore. Hermione was surprised by the strength in his aged hands. But mostly it was Ron.
How she hated herself for these fantasies. She should be planning her escape, not dreaming of her rescue. She had always thought or herself as brave, but sometimes she felt that the bravest thing she could do was open her eyes, to face another day.
She would no longer count quietly to her self. That had ended the second day. She had been curled up on the floor, her knees against her chest, softly murmuring the words when she heard had it. Not the gruff voice that had met her pleas the first day, but a smooth silky voice. No, not silky, slimy. She felt dirty just listening to it.
"Two thousand three hundred and forty-nine... Two thousand three hundred and fifty... Two thousand three hundred and fifty-one." It cooed. Sickly-sweet, the voice seemed to slither under the door, and crawl across her ears. "Why do you count little witch? Do you still believe that they come?" Hermione crawled to the far wall, trying to distance herself from the voice. "Why would anyone search for a filthy little mudblood like you?" Hermione tried to plug her ears, but with her wrists bound she found that she could cover only one. And still, the voice continued to hiss.
Hermione had gone two days without hearing that voice. She had moved carefully, trying to limit the noise that she made. She did not cry, for fear that they would hear her. She hardly breathed, the sound of her exhalation echoing in her ears.
But on the fourth day, she heard it again, calling to her from under the door. "Has the darkness taken you yet little witch? The darkness does funny things to a person. Alone in the never ending night, your imagination begins to play tricks on you."
Hermione crawled away from the voice, trying to hide from the sound. The voice washed over her, covering her in filth. "They still have not come for you mudblood. Do you wonder if they even know that you are gone? Do they know what haunts your dreams?" Hermione chocked back a sob. The words were to close to those questions that she had asked herself.
"Alone in the darkness little witch. Are you lonely?" She could hear the sneer in his voice. She wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to make herself as small as possible. "What scares you most little witch," the voice purred. "The shadows lurking in your own mind, or the Boogeyman outside your door?"