II. Remember Me?

Seventeen hours ago

Hermione slowly woke, her head throbbing on one side, the pain increasing as consciousness returned. Disjointed memories crept back – dinner – wine – Ron – a hulking black figure down a shadowy Soho mews, spellfire.

The spiky jolt of panic flooded her system and she bolted upright, senses still whirling all in a daze as she stared wildly around her at the unfamiliar surroundings, taking in the unfamiliar senses – some rough, scratchy material beneath her bare legs; chill, dank, rarely-used air; oppressive, confining silence.

A hand touched her arm and Hermione jumped with a shriek.

"It's me, it's Ron, it's me," he said quickly.

"Oh, Ron!" A brief burst of relief, for just a moment. You're still in big trouble, a little voice warned, even if you're not alone. Even so, Hermione flung her arms around Ron's neck, and allowed herself to take a little comfort that he was here, with her. She felt him pat her on the back a little unsteadily.

But where was here?

Hermione drew back and looked around. She was kneeling on a bare mattress, no sheets or blankets, in her little black dress, the poor thing scuffed and torn and stained now – she noted these things matter-of-factly – no wand in the wand-pocket, of course. Ron was sitting on the bed, had an angry goose-egg of a lump swelling on his forehead, and looked stressed and grim. Their coats and shoes had been taken.

They were in what looked like a large disused basement room, empty save for the queen-sized bed and a couple of lumpy pillows, also devoid of pillowcases; a plastic folding table, but no chairs; a lidded office waste bin in one corner; and a small heap of rubbish in another corner. No windows, one thick wooden door. The floor was bare cement, the walls roughly-painted concrete stripped of wallpaper, and a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling cast a dismal yellow glow on everything.

Hermione shot a glance at Ron, and knew what was on his mind: the cellar-turned-dungeon of Malfoy Manor, three years ago. She hadn't seen it herself, she was busy being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, but Ron had described it to her, confessed to her the fear he'd felt then – which she saw now mirrored in the rising panic on his face. A panic which he tried to conceal, but she knew him all too well.

"Charming, isn't it?" said Ron. He winced, and gingerly prodded his forehead. "I came to just about a minute ago."

"What happened?"

"I think he Stunned you. Then he waited for me, and threw you at me. Your head scored a direct hit. Then he Stunned me too." Ron made to touch the painful left side of her head, and Hermione instinctively flinched; he grinned sardonically.

Hermione got up and strode to the door, grabbed the lever handle, shook and rattled it. It didn't budge an inch, of course. Silly girl. "You've had a look around?" she said, trying to sound calm. Trying to take control where there was patently none.

"Was about to, when you came round." Ron got up and pressed his hands against the walls, closely inspected the door-frame. "Spelled," he muttered. "No breaking that down." He walked over every inch of floor, looked under the bed, sifted through the rubbish heap in the corner. Hermione just watched; gone were the days when she could still surprise her two best friends with what she knew, at least in the area of defensive and Dark magic. The Auror Office had made Ron the better of them at doing what he was doing.

Besides… Hermione was finding it hard to think properly what to do right now. Unbidden thoughts were rising in her head – vague fears, scenarios, imaginings – and she fought to keep them defocused, to think clearly on useful, constructive things. Panic was getting a grip on her, too.

"I guess that's supposed to be the loo," Ron said, looking down at the waste bin. His fists clenched and unclenched. "Right," he said at last, "we can jump him when he comes in through that door. That's... that's the best we can do. What can you cast without a wand, Hermione?"

"Spell-Check Spell, that sort of thing," said Hermione, trying to smile. "Not much call for anything more violent in the office. You?"

"We do wandless training, but the useful ones are really difficult. I'm only up to the Leg-Locker Curse," said Ron. "Harry's a bit further ahead, he can pull off a Stunner, only sometimes, but still... Fuck, I should have worked harder on the fucking..." He sat down on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

Through the dread coiling around her heart and clawing at her throat, Hermione felt a wave of pity, and she put her arm around him. "It's not your fault," she whispered. She smoothed his hair back tenderly, brushed her fingers over his freckled cheek.

Ron caught her hand, held on tight as a child clinging to its mother.

"Who do," Hermione cleared her throat, "who do you think did this..."

"Wizards. Death Eaters, perhaps. We didn't get every last one of the bastards – one or two slipped away to the Continent, or the States. We've got targets on our backs, you know that."

"Could it have been random?"

"What, just picked you out to snatch off the street? No, he was waiting, I'm almost sure of it. He was planning this," said Ron. "He must have been watching us for some time, and we – I never twigged."

Bitter Ron was not a pretty sight. "It's not your fault," Hermione repeated. "It's okay. We'll think of something."

He raised his head and looked at her with incredulity, seemed about to say something, then visibly changed whatever it was to: "I managed to get off some sparks. A distress signal the Auror Office will notice and recognise. They're good, they'll be looking for us even now. So we'll just sit and wait."

Sit and wait... for whatever their captor was going to do to them. Again, Hermione tried not to think about it.

"We should try and rest," Ron said. "Be more prepared that way. We can take turns keeping watch."

She understood. They couldn't both sleep, they might lose an opportunity to escape. Every scrap of advantage, every fraction of a percentage point – seize it. "Makes sense."

They agreed to switch every fifteen minutes. That was long enough for some kind of a catnap, and for the one staying awake not to lose count – their captor had taken their watches, they could only count the passing seconds in their heads. One to nine hundred.

Hermione lay down on the bare mattress, and tried to sleep. Beside her, Ron sat stiffly, his back not touching the wall. Her hand was warm in his – the only part of her body not chilled with fear.

Seconds, minutes, hours...

There was a loud pop, and they both jumped – Hermione, who was keeping watch, and Ron who instantly twitched awake. A large jug and a brown paper bag had appeared on the plastic table. Exchanging glances, Hermione and Ron got up and cautiously approached the table.

Ron uncovered the lid on the plastic jug. "Milk. What's in the bag?"

Hermione pulled out a small loaf of Hovis sliced sandwich bread. "White bread. And nothing else."

"It's something," shrugged Ron. He took a swallow from the milk jug. "Pass the bread, Hermione."

"You can't seriously be thinking about food at this time!"

Ron's blue eyes were hard and cold. "We've got to keep our strength up, Hermione, and be prepared to fight or run for it. And the best place for food is inside you; you never know if they'll take it away. Come on." He offered her the milk jug.

Hermione took it slowly. She found she needed both hands to grip it, somehow.

The bread wasn't so bad, each bite mixed with a mouthful of milk, but Hermione could barely taste it. Everything felt strangely flavourless in her mouth, she could have been chewing wads of cotton. Halfway through her share, her appetite gave out completely, and she pushed her last couple of slices over to Ron. He finished it off, along with the last of the milk.

Their captor, whoever he is – he didn't forget us. He sent this. But – but that means he's around. He's aware. He could be coming. Maybe right now.

Hermione meant to sit, but found herself giving in to what she identified as some kind of infantile response; she curled up on the bare mattress like a scared little girl, drawing her knees up to her chin. The bed was positioned right in the centre of the wall agains which it abutted, facing the door, and she stared straight ahead, and couldn't take her eyes off the steel lever handle.

Wordlessly, Ron joined her on the bed. He put his arm around her – his left, not his usual right, his wand-arm.

Hermione crept closer into the warmth of his body.

And so they waited, huddled on the bed and staring at the door, their hearts in their mouths.

The handle turned.

Ron had a second or so to shake himself free of Hermione, and gather himself, ready to spring.

The door swung back to reveal a huge, hooded, black-robed figure.

Ron leapt to his feet and lunged from the bed, his wand-hand pushing out. "Loco–!" But before he could complete the jinx, the figure raised its wand and he was blasted backwards, hitting the floor hard and staying down, pinned by an Impediment Jinx.

He couldn't see any part of the person underneath the robes; he wore gloves on his big hands, and a balaclava with tiny eye slits. Ron assumed he was a man though, from the posture and build. The bit of flesh visible round the small eyes looked tanned, or perhaps florid. The figure lowered his wand, and turned his head towards Hermione, who was standing beside the bed, her eyes wide with fear.

Oh God.

"OI!" snarled Ron, echoes of Malfoy Manor screaming in his ears. "Don't you – don't you dare – YOU TOUCH HER AND I'LL RIP–!"

"Shut up, Ron!" snapped Hermione, but her voice wavered. "Please – you don't have to – it doesn't have to be like this. What is it you want? We can help you – we will help you – please..."

A sudden noise: a giggle, high-pitched, wheezy, and quite obviously straddling the borders of sanity. "Mudblood," hissed the voice. "Lil' Mudblood..." The voice was strangely familiar.

"Do... do I know..." Hermione's words died in a terrified squeak.

"Yeah, o' course. Remember me?" And then their abductor threw back the hood and pulled off the balaclava.

Ron swore filthily; Hermione uttered a choked shriek, and her hands flew to her mouth.

The head was completely bald, the skin red as a sunburn wherever it wasn't blotched with patches of dark flesh, and the entire face was covered with a mass of puckered scars, but it was still very recognisably Vincent Crabbe.

"You left me to burn," he said, and once again Ron was surprised by the softness of his voice. "But I didn't. Not all the way. Remembered the counter-curse, in the end. And then I found this old cabinet what Malfoy did up. Got away unnoticed."

"The war's over, Crabbe," said Hermione. "You didn't do much – Malfoy's free, did you hear – we can help you, I'm a lawyer now, we can..."

Crabbe looked down at Ron, then at Hermione. His stare began at her feet, and didn't reach her eyes. "Did you know," he continued in that soft boyish voice, "I've thought for quite some time now about raping you?"

What little colour there had been drained totally from Hermione's face.

"CRABBE YOU SON OF A BITCH DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE I WILL–!"

"Silencio."

Mad rage and horror was consuming Ron totally, but he could do nothing but struggle against the jinx and scream soundlessly. Helplessly.

"Please," Hermione managed, "please... don't..."

Crabbe shrugged, looked down on his gloved left hand. "I can't, though," said Crabbe. "The Fyrefiends – they ate too much of me." He tapped his wand against his thigh, and it made a tinny, almost hollow sound. "Can't do or feel much through these things." He looked down at Ron on the floor.

"So you'll have to do her for me. What do you say to that, eh?"

Hermione's mind raced ahead as always, tallying resources, noting every word and movement in the room in hyper-focus, ransacking her vast memory and putting the bits and pieces together to come up with solutions. Offer help – appeal to better nature – hit him while he's distracted – legal amnesty – money – beg for mercy...!

But all that blanked out in the blinding white light of horror that screamed in her mind the instant Crabbe gave voice to the fears she had been trying so very hard not to think about, ever since she'd woken up in this makeshift dungeon.

Ron broke through the Silencing Spell. "What I say is FUCK YOU you coward Crabbe, let me up and I'll give you something to think about you fat fucking piece of..."

"I ain't gonna listen to this," said Crabbe, and Silenced Ron again. "Here's how it works. I've spent a long time thinking about it." He flicked his wand at the corner of the room, and something black, spindly, and most decidedly Muggle appeared there.

A video camera on a tripod.

That's a really big camera, said the tiny portion of Hermione's brain not gibbering. Look at the size of that lens, that microphone. It probably gets a really good picture. Great sound. It probably goes for hours and hours.

Crabbe reached over and gently pressed the red recording button. A little red light in the front of the device blinked on. "Muggles record moving pictures with this," he enthused, for a moment sounding like any other teenage boy with a toy. "So I'll be able to watch you again and again and again. Amazing what those animals can come up with, innit?"

He pointed the stiff fingers of his gloved prosthetic left hand at Hermione, leering. "You do it here on the bed, where the Muggle thing can see."

Hermione found her voice. "We won't," she said, the words coming out in a squeak. "Y-y-you can't make us."

Crabbe's smile was child-like, almost innocent. Like a firstie confident of earning points for Slytherin with a correct answer, he said: "Course I can. You'll do it, or I'll kill you. Do it, and I'll hand you over to some people I know. They'll probably set you free for a ransom. Wouldn't that be nice? But first, I want my tape. Now, be quick about it. I need to go see some friends."

He shut the door gently behind him.