Shades of Grey
Chapter Nineteen: Hermione's Resolve
"Mudblood, and proud of it!"
- Hermione Granger
She was floating on a cloud. She felt…weightless; like all of her troubles had simply evaporated. The sky was clear and shimmering with a thousand different colors, and for the first time in what seemed like years, Hermione felt peace. Up here, the ridiculous problems she'd spent so long fretting over seemed juvenile. She glanced down at her arm and ran her fingers over the smooth skin; there was no scar there. No jagged letters that spelled out the word "Mudblood". There was just clear, soft flesh…exactly the way it was supposed to be. The way it had been. Everything was…perfect. Hermione was floating on a cloud and there was no one else in sight. Nevertheless, at the back of her mind rested a nagging thought—she was forgetting something. But what? Her lips tugged into a discontented pout and she glanced around, struggling to find something (anything) that would call forth whatever it was she'd forgotten about. But there was nothing—nothing but clouds, serenity, and a clear sky.
And then came the thunder.
At once, the sky darkened around her. Bright flashes of lightning struck the blackening sky, followed by deafening rounds of thunder that shook Hermione to her core. Instantly, Hermione felt a shooting pain through her temple. She cried in pain, clutching her head with both hands; her fingernails dug into her scalp and she shuddered, trying to block out the pain. But with each boom, boom, boom of the thunder, the pain intensified. Salty tears flooded her eyes and she collapsed on top of her cloud. Rain was pelting down around her from all sides, and slowly, slowly, her cloud began to dissolve.
She was falling, falling, falling…into an abyss she couldn't quite make out. The throbbing pain in her head magnified with each second that passed; it was so strong now that she felt pain—white hot and blinding—strike against the back of her head. She was certain she was going to crack—to break under the intensity of the pain. And when at last she was swallowed up by the darkness, two words tore themselves from her throat.
"Help us."
Us? Help us? Confusion clouded Hermione's mind, and she opened her bleary eyes slowly. The world around her was swimming; shapes contorted and twisted to blur together, and Hermione let out a soft groan as she struggled to focus in on her surroundings. The first thing she was consciously aware of was the floor; it was cool against her cheek. She was on her side, and even the slightest shift of her limbs caused a ripple of pain to spread from the base of her spine to the very tips of her fingers. She let out a low, hoarse moan, her cheek scraping against the wooden floor beneath her. The room was dark; Hermione could barely make out anything five feet in front of her. As her eyes began to adjust to the dimness of her surroundings, the former Gryffindor noticed that she was shut away in a shoebox of a room. Try as she might to recollect how she'd gotten there, nothing came to mind.
What was the last thing she remembered?
Her mind was still incredibly foggy, and as her eyebrows creased together and a look of concentration set itself on her fair features, she tried to relay her final moments of consciousness. It was like a mist had settled itself over her mind, and the harder she tried to focus on the past, the more prominent the ache in her head grew. She slid one of her hands up to rest on the back of her head, gingerly rubbing a sore spot; she could feel a bump at the base of her skull and winced, allowing her fingers to dust across the swollen bruise.
And then, slowly, it began to all come back to her.
She'd been creeping inside an abandoned, haunted house—the Shrieking Shack. She could recall her reasons for venturing there; she'd gone to try and find Bellatrix, who was rumored to be hiding out in the rickety old shack, and had run into a bit of an obstacle along the way. She vaguely remembered a table littered with various objects in the corner of the room—there was…there was a map of sorts, and some object that buzzed to life and screeched at an ungodly pitch, and…something else. Something sharp and shining; something that Hermione felt herself inwardly wincing at the thought of. She remembered a cool voice bringing her out of her thoughts, and an arm winding itself around her throat. She could recall the way her hooded captor had blocked off her airway. Instantly, the hand that was caressing the back of her head slid around to her throat. The skin felt tender, and Hermione swore that if she glanced into the mirror, she'd see a long bruise blossoming across the column of her neck.
But what had happened next? What had happened?
There was a bit of a struggle; a third person had intervened and Hermione shrieked to be released. She could just barely remember attempting to kick her captor in the shins during it all…and failing miserably. There was someone else there, though…someone who had come along to try and help her. As her fingers trailed down to brush against her collarbone, all at once it hit her like a ton of bricks.
Draco. He'd been hit with a spell and rendered unconscious. And suddenly, with clarity, the rest of that night came flooding back. Hermione felt her heart thudding painfully against her rib cage as she remembered the few, painstakingly long seconds that had followed—she had struggled to break free of the strong arms that held her captive, and when she refused to cooperate, she'd been stunned unconscious.
The last thing she saw was Draco's body, crumpled and broken over in the corner. After that, the world around her had ceased to exist.
And now here she was, shut up in a dark room that was hardly larger than a closet; it smelled of mold and decay, and Hermione's nose scrunched up as the stench mingled unpleasantly with the aroma of dried blood that was caked in her hair. She'd obviously had a bit of a struggle when she fell…who knew how long she'd been locked up in this room for. A day? Two days? A week? She didn't feel painfully hungry or parched, so she was willing to bet that it hadn't been too long since she'd been stuffed away in here. The problem now was trying to figure out where she was.
With the full intention of doing a bit of investigating, Hermione placed her hands against the rotting wooden floor, slowly heaving herself up into a sitting position. Her muscles ached and groaned, and a shooting pain bloomed at the very base of her spine. She bit down on her bottom lip roughly to keep from crying out, grunting and contorting her face into a pained expression as she forced herself to sit up. By the time she'd finally managed it, she was a bit of a panting mess; she supposed that whomever had been responsible for carting her body here hadn't been at all gentle with her. Not that she'd expected any sort of special treatment anyways—they were Death Eaters and she was a Mudblood.
Though she'd long since chosen to reject the term, today she embraced it. She was repulsed by its meaning and the sea of prejudice that it created between bodies of the Wizarding World, but she would no longer hide from the term to conceal her shame and embarrassment.
She was Hermione Granger the Mudblood, and that title meant nothing to her. She was Hermione the Brave, Hermione the Logical, Hermione the Kind. She thought things through with an extraneous amount of detail and perseverance—she liked to think she had proved herself not only as a capable Witch, but as an important warrior and member of the Order.
She was so much more than the filthy little Mudblood, and she would live by that one truth for the rest of her life.
More determined than ever to escape this blasted room and locate Malfoy (Merlin—where was he? Was he alright?), Hermione took a moment to think about where she is. There were only so many places that Bellatrix could take her—she and her band of Death Eaters and followers were wanted by the entire Order (and the Ministry of Magic itself as well, come to think of it). They wouldn't want to take her some place where she could be easily spotted. So…so Hermione was willing to believe that she was more than likely stationed in a safe house of sorts. One Bellatrix hadn't been caught at or knowingly suspected of before. She might have been manic and a bit impulsive, but Hermione knew Bellatrix wasn't that thick; surely she would have stayed away from any location that would be immediately tied to her.
Unless…unless she wanted to get caught. Was it possible that Bellatrix would take her captives to a rather ostentatious setting in hopes of luring Harry and the others to her? Was she really devious enough to set up that kind of trap? Hermione nibbled on the inside of her cheek, huffing as she thought again and again about the possible motives behind Bellatrix Lestrange. She couldn't say she knew enough about the psyche of Voldemort's former second-in-command to delve into any absolutes, and that frustrated Hermione to no end. There was only so much she could figure out on her own, so Hermione sighed and ran a shaky hand through her hair. Her hand flickered down to her pockets, and that's when she remembered.
She didn't have her wand. Or any weapon, for that matter.
Inwardly cursing herself for taking so long to remember the obvious, Hermione resigned herself to searching for something—anything—that she could defend herself with. It was pertinent to arm herself, lest she be intruded on by someone who came to collect her with the intent of harming her. The minute that someone entered the room and came to collect her (for Merlin only knew what), Hermione would…she would strike. Perhaps not immediately, but she'd gather up the courage to fight back. If she could only find something to defend herself with…
Against a Wizard or Witch who would, more than likely, be armed with a wand. Fantastic.
Determined, Hermione leaned forward and positioned herself on her hands and knees; the angling was a bit uncomfortable, given how sore she was, but there was only so much she could do with her eyesight virtually impaired, given the lack of lighting present. Grunting, Hermione began to crawl across the floor, feeling her way around. Maybe she could find a way to pull herself up against a wall—maybe there would be something hanging up that she could use…like the screw in the back of a picture frame or something from a display. She was a bit hopeless, truth be told; if she'd been shoved away in this room, then in all likelihood…it was bare. She doubted anyone would want to stick her in a room with a bloody knife display or anything of the sort.
The thought was dismal and dampened her hopes, but Hermione continued to search nonetheless.
Finally, when she was fully prepared to give up and slump against the ground, she felt something. It was a loose floorboard; it creaked and waned underneath the weight of her hand, and Hermione felt her heart skip a beat. Gingerly, she felt for the edge of the floorboard; it was rough in her hands, and she soon found exactly what she was looking for—two loose nails from where the wooden board had broken away from the ground. Pressing her tongue between her teeth, Hermione began to tug and yank at the first nail. Her fingers became raw and it took quite a bit more effort than she would have expected, but with a final tug she was able to yank it out. Exhaling in a rush and wiping at her brow, Hermione slipped the nail in her pocket. There was one more left to go, and this was more difficult to remove than the first. When she'd finally managed to dislodge both loose nails from the wood, she kept one in her pocket and enclosed the other in the palm of her hand. And then, quickly as she could, she fumbled with the loose floorboard and laid it back in its place. The next time someone came in, then…if they posed any sort of threat to her, then she would strike.
It would be a long shot, to be sure—she'd be going against an armed Witch or Wizard with nothing more than a couple of crooked nails. The odds were slim, but they were all she had.
Just then, she heard something outside her room. Gasping quietly, Hermione glanced over towards the doorway; the door was sealed shut so tightly so that not so much as a sliver of light passed through, but Hermione could still hear—there was a heavy set of feet clomping their way down the corridor towards her, and Hermione's heart was in her throat. Panicking, she quickly decided to ease herself back down into the position she'd been left in—if someone came in to yank her out and pull her away for questioning or…or torture or whatever it was that Bellatrix had planned for her, Hermione would attack them completely by surprise. So it was with her mind set firmly that she lowered herself down onto the hard floor once more, biting back the urge to groan as she shifted and draped her body across the wooden floor. Her hand flexed around the nail she kept clutched tightly in one palm, and she struggled to calm and even her breathing pattern.
It proved to be nearly impossible.
The footsteps stopped just outside the door. They stalled—only momentarily—before the owner twisted the doorknob and threw it open. Instantly, Hermione resisted the impulse to wince; a bright shaft of fluorescent light fell across her closed eyes, lighting up the room and burning the back of her eyelids. She supposed she'd been denied any proper light for so long that even the smallest amount was enough to harm her. Still, she kept her eyes shut; desperate as she was to find out who was in the room, she wouldn't acknowledge anyone's presence until absolutely necessary.
"Wake up, Mudblood," came a low growl. A heavy boot made contact with her thigh harshly and Hermione bit back tears, blinking her eyes open slowly and feigning a groggy state of being. The pain in her thigh was throbbing, and as much as she wanted to clutch her leg and wince in pain, she refused; she wouldn't let whomever had come to collect her receive the satisfaction of knowing they'd successfully harmed her. Her eyes scanned up the long legs before her and met the…ghastly, beast-like face of Fenrir Greyback.
For as brave as Hermione told herself she could be, the sight of the werewolf was almost enough to have her shuddering. Suddenly, the nail in her hand seemed laughable; using it against a werewolf? Against Fenrir? He'd crush her; he could snap Hermione in half like a bloody twig.
Still, Hermione said nothing. She sorely doubted that Greyback had actually been expecting her to respond to him.
"I'm here to tell you that Mrs. Lestrange will be seeing you shortly," He grunted, enunciating his master's name with a particularly vicious undertone. Hermione idly wondered if Fenrir resented answering to Bellatrix and decided to stow the question away for a later date. What was important was seeing Bellatrix—Hermione could only imagine how that meeting would go, and she subtly flexed her clammy fingers around the cool nail in her hand. However, given the way that Greyback was speaking, Hermione believed she still had some time—perhaps a few hours or so. That…might be enough time for her to think of an escape plan, then; something more solid than clutching a rusty old nail in her hand and preparing to strike whoever got in her way first. In hindsight, it seemed a rather loose plan with quite a few holes in it. But she was working with what she'd found in the small window of time she'd been afforded. A few more hours might mean a great deal to her.
Then again, it might mean nothing.
"Make sure you're prepared, Mudblood—Bellatrix likes them alert," Fenrir continued, barking out the order to her. Hermione focused her eyes on the wall, pointedly ignoring him. She heard his labored breathing for a few more minutes, and finally…he turned around and began to stomp out of the room. Fully prepared to hear the slam of the door and for her to be enveloped in darkness once more, she was inwardly startled when Fenrir turned around, hovering in the doorway. Much to her dismay, her eyes traveled to find his face, and the toothy grin that greeted her was enough to have Hermione's stomach lurching.
"Don't worry about your little Pureblood friend," Fenrir teased, his yellow teeth twinkling under the lights. "Bellatrix has very special plans for her beloved Blood Traitor of a nephew."
And then, without so much as another word, Fenrir slammed the door shut, and Hermione was once again left in darkness…more unsettled than before.
Bellatrix might have had something special planned for her, but Hermione had a feeling it was nowhere near as vengeful as what she had in store for Draco. For someone like Bellatrix Lestrange, blood was much thicker than water; it was thicker than anything.
And when someone tainted that blood, she lashed out. Hermione knew that Draco was next. And…and despite how much he'd hurt her, Hermione couldn't help but worry about him. Even more than she was worrying about herself.
That was it, then. She needed to escape…and she'd be sure to take Draco with her. She'd best Bellatrix Lestrange—even if it was the last thing she did.
Because she was Hermione Granger, and she did not accept failure.
a/N: Hey again everyone! I know this is a bit strange, uploading two chapters so close to each other, but I was really in a writing mood! Besides, this chapter is a lot of internal monologue concerning Hermione-I wouldn't say it's a "filler" chapter, exactly, but I suppose that's the closest term to describe it! I know it's significantly less aciton-y than the last chapter, but I hope you all like it nevertheless! Don't forget to review! Have a great day! :)