Chapter XVII
The Cathar Cross
"Legilimens."
Hermione's memories streamed unbidden into her consciousness. Dumbledore's face, pale in the darkness with only a blueish light illuminating his crinkled face. She saw Moody and Harry walking up to the castle. She saw Bill and Bagman and goblins, and then she saw Narcissa, smiling. Narcissa smiling and hugging her.
Flashes of the year went by. She caught the face of Harry, the memories of Bellatrix and Andromeda. She remembered Daphne's smooth skin drawn across her tongue as Hermione kissed her belly, Daphne's fingers catching in her hair, the warmth of her body pressed against her own. Hermione wanted to vomit, but not even that reflex was within her control.
She remembered Daphne's movements, sounds, and all at once they were replaced by the screams of Pansy as she writhed on the floor. The flickering of the goblet passed in an instant, swapped for the fire Dumbledore had swept from torch to torch during their first lesson. She could have relieved that whole night, but she didn't remember once it had passed. Days in the Watford Library zoomed by, forgotten as easily as they had once the summer ended.
Peter Pettigrew. She remembered him, and his blue light that ripped her apart. She remembered, in detail now, how the dementors had flown overhead. She remembered when Lupin turned, when Snape and Sirius Black fought each other, how Pettigrew was a rat and Black was a grimm, and how she had imperiused both of them.
She felt someone's arms around her. A comforting restriction, warmth of affection. Draco was holding her, and they were together. He kissed her and she let him do things to her. She remembered how he made her feel special. And then it passed.
Tom Riddle stood before her; handsome, brilliant. He smiled at her and called her beautiful. Hermione tried to kill Ginny. It was the only way to stop him. But before that, she wanted to go with Tom. To be with Tom.
The diary wilted, and Ginny survived.
Her Polyjuice potion, brewed at the entrance of the Chamber without knowing it.
Receiving her first Hogwarts marks in the post. She had celebrated with her parents.
Snape's talk with her, first year. So long ago but so real in this moment.
Arriving at Hogwarts, being sorted. Picking Slytherin. Choosing Slytherin.
The memories streamed from all the way back into primary school. Her books, her teachers. That boy she made fun of because he couldn't do arithmetic. The one with the freckles and the curly hair. It all came back to her and then was whisked off, leaving her mind as if swept away by a broom.
Somewhere in her childhood it stopped. She didn't quite remember when it stopped, in her memories or now in the present. She gradually became aware of herself, laying on cold, hard stone.
"An intriguing girl," came a smooth voice. "Perhaps an excuse for Draco's attachment." There was a pause. "But perhaps not. A stupid girl, after all is said and done. You shouldn't have let anything come of it. The boy may be troubled by all of this."
"He is a Malfoy, Lord," said another voice. "This was… nothing but a passing hobby."
A woman's laughter echoed around the walls. "Then have him end it, when the time comes." Hermione couldn't still be in the dining room. The voices echoed off walls too close to be a large room. She didn't remember being moved – though, she didn't remember much of anything beyond the pain. Hermione must have passed out sometime after the third Cruciatus.
"He's only a boy."
"Have you softened," the woman said, "after all these years living the good life? Sacrificing nothing?"
"It was your sister who encouraged the boy. I wanted nothing to do with it."
"You let it happen," the smooth voice said again. "Do you say you have no qualms with where things have led?"
"None, Lord. You are here, after all. I could not have wished for more."
The woman snickered again. Hermione heard a scuff near her head. A boot slammed into her gut. Hermione coughed violently, clutching at her abdomen, but the pain blossomed everywhere. Her arms and legs, her chest, her head and her back. Her whole body ached now, and she had trouble breathing. Hermione rolled onto her back, struggling to get air into her body. She saw the woman above her. The woman she thought she knew. Bellatrix Lestrange.
She leered at Hermione before turning to the others. Tom Riddle, no longer handsome but bald and pallid, stood passively, staring down at Hermione with cold eyes. Then, he gestured with his arm. "Show me."
Lucius Malfoy stepped into her sight. His blond hair was bright, and he stood as tall as ever. She saw Draco in his face, in his eyes. She didn't understand. "Why?" she whispered. After everything, why did they do this to her? Hermione was one of them - she wanted to be one of them. They were like her family. What she would have done for them...
His face was taught when he pointed his wand at Hermione. "Crucio."
She tried screaming. Screaming so loud that it would block out the pain. But it didn't, and after a while, she gave up. He lungs wouldn't respond, anyway. They were trying too hard to keep her alive even as every other inch of her body begged for death.
After Tom was satisfied by Lucius' resolve, they left. But Bellatrix stayed. She didn't say anything. She just took out her knife. The same knife Hermione had seen in her sister's memory. Bellatrix knelt over Hermione and seized her arm.
Hermione felt like over-boiled pasta. Her arm just dangled in Bellatrix' grasp. She tried moving something – anything – but her muscles didn't respond. Hermione was limp, completely at her mercy. And in as much pain as she was, she still felt the knife split her skin and dig into her flesh. She felt every slice and curve of the blade as Bellatrix made her mark on Hermione, not just on her arm, but burned into her memory. Mudblood.
I-I. ⌡. Γ┐
Hermione lay in the pitch-black cell and tried to stay as still as possible. Every inch of her body ached. Her mouth was devoid of moisture; her stomach hadn't been filled in days and felt like a bottomless pit sucking away what energy she had left. A shiver ran down her body and lasted so long it threatened to explode into a full-blown seizure. The shaking woke up the nerves on her left arm, which promptly exploded into new throbbing pain.
She forgot how to count the seconds she was conscious. Silence and darkness stripped time of its meaning. Sometimes it felt like days passed before Bellatrix returned. Other times, it was hardly a blink of an eye. But Hermione always expected her to return. The moment of blinding light as the crazed witch entered the cell became at the same time terrifying and consoling. It meant that the world still existed beyond her realm of suffering.
Hermione waited to get used to the Cruciatus curse. In her solitude, she remembered where she had felt the pain and thought of ways to ignore it. But always the pain came in new places. Unexpected, unprepared, soft and weak places. Hermione could only find soft and weak places in herself, now. Her will to fight the pain eroded with each stab and spasm. Her only strength left was in her mind. When Bellatrix entered, Hermione promised herself she'd fight the torture this time. She wouldn't give in. But every time she couldn't hold back from screeching and begging for it to stop, she felt a little less sane.
Bellatrix also wasn't after memories, like Tom had been. Seeing her life before her eyes had its benefits. Hermione could think. Think about where she went wrong and where she could go from here – if there were anywhere to go, anywhere she could go. The familiar images kept her grounded. She knew who she was in those memories. She didn't, so much, know who she was right now. She only knew how fucked she was, and couldn't think much beyond that simple fact.
Once or twice she thought she noticed other people in the room. Not Bellatrix, and not torturing her. But she was barely lucid those times, and it was pitch black. She thought she heard a voice asking her something. Hermione didn't know what it said. At first, she ignored it, but after an age of feverish visions of an empty room, a disembodied voice and continual dizziness, she decided that God may answer her, if it was no one else. Hermione wasn't religious. Her parents taught her that all the answers she needed were in books with good bibliographies, not books with dubious authorship. Still, she couldn't discount the possibility. After all, eleven years of reason were toppled by the strange appearance of a Scottish witch on her front lawn. She'd seen dragons and trolls and shapeshifters and werewolves. A spirit with a will and ability to help her wasn't out of the question. So, with no shame whatsoever, Hermione said into the darkness, "Please help me."
It was as if a huge weight left her body. She felt a calm take hold, and she drifted into half-sleep, still knowing that she'd be dead whenever they pleased. But it felt nice to think someone would save her. She couldn't think of anyone else who would.
