II.
It is a warm yet damp morning I awake to and I rise from the mite-infested pallet on the floor. If not for the mud caked in it, my hair would be exceptionally frizzy, or at least more so than usual. It has been a long time since my hair was frizzy.
I didn't sleep well last night. Dreams of the past haunted me, bordering on nightmares. I think i saw Harry last night -- I think he spoke to me, but I don't remember what he said. I no longer care enough to hope that he isn't welcoming me to his side of the veil.
My hand brushes a scabbed over patch on at my waist as I pull on my outer robe. I stare at it, uncomprehending. I don't recall the wound; I must have received it the evening prior. Blood is slowly seeping from the wound.
That does not matter.
I leave the tunnel at a dead sprint; I hope to make the woods this time before they realize I have left its decrepit walls.
A part of me, the smallest remnant of a once insatiable curiousity wonders how they could not find me in that place, holed up in the Shrieking Shack. The Muggle part of me doesn't believe that Ron and I could make the world forget such a well-known place.
Triple cracks sound directly behind me; apparation. I'm too weak to manage it now, even if I could picture a place still safe enough to go. Perhaps He was right all along about my inferiority . . .
It begins to rain when the first curse hits.
III.
Moments bleed into infinity as more dark-hooded devils join their curses to the first. I stop distinguishing between specific curses and simply scream.
I have never felt such pain as this. It seeps into every pore, every nerve, every crack, every nuance of my very soul. I go mindless with my inability to process it all.
When I first learned of the Death Eaters and the things they did so very long ago, I imagined that I would withstand anything they threw at me. Certainly, even if they caught me, I would never abase myself so far as to beg for mercy. I would never give them that satisfaction. I was Hermione Granger, muggle-born witch, best friend to the Boy Who Lived. The possibilities were endless . . .
It appears that my attackers agree with the sentiment. Bored with simply causing my raw, physical pain, the first man falls upon me, rending the remainders of my garments from my flesh. I am too tired to beg. Too tired even to think.
I begin to accept the inevitability of my demise. They would not defile me if they planned to let me live. No matter how intelligent I once was, no matter my potential, I am filth to them.
Leftover surges of pain wrack my body. I think the fourth (or is he the fifth?) is enjoying the sporadic convulsions reverberating through me.
Pervert.
I don't know how long I have been laying here in the field just beyond the edge of the Forbidden Forest. I don't really care to know either, should some well-meaning hex bless me with the information.
Blood pours from several parts of my body; my life was seeps out into the damp ground. As another man pounds into me, I hope that some tiny organism will be nourished from those last drops of my vitality. I would hate to die so needlessly.
A grunt, and he rolls off me. I lay limp, waiting for the next taker.
Someone begins screaming at me, obscenities that I can't quite make out. I realize then that they are not yelled at me, though nevertheless come from my assailants.
"Avada Kedavra!" It was shouted repeatedly. Each time, I held my breath, bracing for the empty release of death.
Finally, a heavy, decidedly male weight falls upon me, and I feel a surprisingly familiar tug of nausea in my gut.
Apparation.
IV.
I open my eyes to a red haze of pain, and I know that I am barely conscious. My surroundings are unfamiliar, but perhaps that is not the case for the near-skeletal form that picks himself off me.
I frown.
"P . . . Pr . . . P . . . Snape?" I ask. My voice is raw and cracked. I haven't used it for such fine articulation as a name in what seems like half a lifetime.
He scowls at me, pulling his wand out, brandishing it. Yet even as he does so, I am decidedly unafraid. Why would he go to the trouble of saving me, if . . .
"I ought to, you know," he snarls.
I blink in surprise. I forgot about that particular talent of his. But no spell was cast . . .
"Oh, it's written all over your face, you silly girl." He speaks harshly, but I can't detect actual malice in his words. I wince as an aftershock of my very-recent cursing courses through me. Something rapidly approacing concern crosses his features.
He swishes and flicks his wand in my direction, and I begin to feel the bone-deep aches lift from me. He mutters as he heals me. It's nearly surreal being healed by the very man who betrayed us. Could it really be possible that I've been so blind . . . ?
"I can't believe what you made me do, Granger. It's all over for me now, and it's all your fault." I relish every word. No one has spoken so much in my presence in more time that I can count.
"I don't know why I even bothered. Should Avada the both of us and save me the trouble of running with you. Monstrous little know-it-all." I'd grin at the nickname, if I could. He hasn't made his way to that end of my body yet.
"Har har," he intones. "Laugh it up all you want. We'll certainly never be safe again." He uses that word, we, with such force. I have been so very lonely since Ron died. I feel a bit of that lonliness finally abate.
He finishes his ministrations after another few rounds of facetious cursing in my general direction and helps me to a sitting position. I manage it, but not without some twinges of pain. It's a far cry from what I was feeling even moments ago.
He rummages within the folds of his midnight robes, pulling forth a thin phial. He uncorks it and hands it to me.
"For any unwanted . . . side effects."
He does not meet my eyes as he says it. I tip the contents down my parched throat and return the emptied container to him.
I will not ask why he is carrying such a brew.
He looks at me with his unfathomably black gaze.
"Now what precisely am I supposed to do with you?"