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Love and War
Chapter Five

Breakdown

Hermione groaned as waves of fire singed across her battered body. Her movements caused the gashes on her skin to stretch, ripping open slightly and allowing her blood to flow freely. She felt it drip down her side; the liquid iron ran over sore bruises and cuts, leaving a blistering trail of agony. All she could feel was pain, but as the seconds slowly passed by, a strange new sensation registered in her mind: arms. Strong arms at that. Arms that seemed to tighten around her waist when she swayed backwards.

The very moment she catalogued this strange, yet reassuring, security, a wave of red-haired recognition blasted her thoughts and the little sanity she had left started to wane gradually from her grasp. George Weasley was captured. George Weasley was captured and had been holding her all this time. George Weasley was captured, had held her all this time, and was now steadying her weak movements as she attempted to get up.

She could hardly believe the reality of this, but with the way his thumbs rubbed soothing circles on the bare skin of her forearms, sending an unexpected flutter through her, she hardly cared about anything else. It was as if she was finally feeling again and remembering all she had missed. The kindness that George nurtured her with, the same type of tenderness which she had been deprived of for so long, it made her feel all she buried deep. Hermione's time spent with the Death Eaters taught her the strength of indifference, but this warmth and support George brought, shocked her senses. Instead of numbing her emotion further, she felt everything. And, oh what a feeling it was.

Hermione was not clueless. She knew very well what had been missing the past months, but until that instant had not comprehended the importance of it. The way George kept her close, his grip tight yet gentle, almost afraid she would break if he let go; it was electrifying. The idea of removing herself from his grasp was unbearable as if their embrace was the only line to humanity left. And he was right there with her. The physical connection between them conveyed all their unspoken emotions.

"Easy there," George whispered as she flopped back with a whimper, resting her head just below his chin. Her breathing timed with his movements instantly, and her body relaxed into George's chest. "I know this is probably a stupid question, but how are you feeling?"

"Like I went into a moshpit and lived." A soft snicker escaped her bruised lips while a sly smile tugged at the corners, but her croak was far from funny. The hoarse tone was pained with stifled screams of agony for so long that it caused Hermione's voice to crack as she spoke. "I'm sure it looks worse than it is."

"I'm sorry, a what-pit?" His amused tone reminded Hermione of home. All the times George and his twin had cheered her up flashed in her mind. When the twins pranked Draco after he teased her in her third year; when they did everything in their power to make her smile after Ron was with Lavender during her sixth year; or how George danced with her at Bill's wedding. Hermione remembered how happy she was when she was smiling with the twins. How the security she felt twirling around the dance floor with George was like no other she had felt before. She believed that she was safe with him that night, which made her departure after the wedding even more challenging.

All she wanted now was to go back to that feeling, the one she had before she left with Ron and Harry. And, if that meant continuing with the light-hearted conversation in this drearily dreadful hole then by all means, as long as it kept the smile on her face, she would. She just hoped she could, if only for a moment, forget what had been happening for the past two and half months. If anyone could accomplish that task, George could.

"It's a muggle thing," Hermione responded flatly, as she moved forward to reach for the water glass at their feet. The instant she shifted, the cold came. She was gone from his grasp, and she felt empty. She needed to have his heat against her and was relieved when he guided her to lie back again. Hermione laughed again when she saw the confusion in George's face but this time, the rumbling joy in her chest was a little heavier.

The quick stretching of the skin caused a violent stabbing in the side of her body, and she immediately brought a hand to brace her ribs. Reality forced its way back to the forefront, and Hermione felt foolish for thinking she could forget. Her dirty fingers clutched at her side, feeling the scabs of partially healed carvings under the callused pads, and a sob suddenly shook her entire body.

"Filthy Mudblood," her captor's voice taunted her thoughts as the memories rushed to the forefront, "So you remember what you are." With another rickety breath, the fear of defeat sunk in. Not only had they tortured her, but they also deformed her. If she and George got out of there, she would still be ridiculed by this disfigurement for the rest of her life. The rest of her bloody life.

She felt hideous like a troll with half his face melted or a leper from the biblical tales her mother told her as a child. "No," she whispered, the abrupt awareness of everything filled her with a heavy weighted dread. The truth was clear as day in her mind: the Death Eaters indeed succeeded, she was finally broken.

For the first time since she arrived, Hermione cried, the tears of trepidation and terror dripping down her cheeks and off her chin in abundance. She felt like she was falling, but as the two strong arms tightened around her, she was alright with the sensation. Allowing her face to bury in the safe comfort that was missing since she left the Burrow, Hermione realised that she was not alone.

"Shh," George whispered against her hair, the soaked cotton of his green t-shirt cooling her cheeks. "They couldn't do anything to make you any less beautiful." Hermione was sure that George Weasley mastered occlumency at that moment, because her darkest hatred for her body, the feeling of blade cutting flesh, recalled in her mind, and yet he knew. She cried harder, knowing that George heard the laughter cackling from her memories and all the harsh words which burned into her forever.

"Th-They, oh," she sputtered, her voice barely audible and muffled by fabric. She may have broken down, but Hermione still refused to let the Death Eaters know about it. She stubbornly smothered her sobs into silent shakes, concealing them in the sieve of George's shirt. She clung to the cloth, balling it in her fists and tugging him closer, anchoring her to the only tangible comfort which remained. "George, I-I can't. Don't let them, please."

"I'm here," he promised, pulling her further into him, his hand resting in her hair as he rocked her back and forth. "And I'm not going anywhere."

They stayed like that for hours, the sunlight turning into the silver blackness of night, causing a deep chill to surround them. George wrapped the forgotten sweater around Hermione, whose face still glistened with tears. While her heavy snivels settled into light sniffles, her hands kept his shirt in a death grip, refusing to let go, fearing the lonely solitude that she suffered before.

Her breaths were deep, inhaling the smell of reassurance that George was dosed in. Each gasp she took allowed her to forget the pain, reminded her of happiness, and brought her to a dizzying lightheaded state of calm. It was like smelling petrol or chloroform, and she assumed that was the reason the aroma was so addictive. George was a drug, a drug to someone who was so deprived of human contact for so long.

Hermione tried to convince herself that it was not anything more, that the very idea of the Death Eaters taking him instead of her only scared her because of friendship rather than some deeper emotion. That the horror had nothing to do with the refuge she always felt with him. That her vulnerable state was probably affecting her sense of logic and that she imagined what she felt was more than platonic.

She knew that the longer she got high off of George, the worse this need for him would become. He was the only one who experienced this with her. The only one to ever truly understand, and whether she wanted to or not, she could never let him go now, even if they were freed. It was why she remained in his embrace.

You see George Weasley had become her lifeline and Hermione would not let go of life just yet.

"George," she finally broke the silence that overwhelmed them, evidence of her earlier weeping lingering in the rough tremble of her voice.

"Hmm," his fingers tenderly combing through her hair as she readjusted her head, nuzzling her face under his chin. "Don't worry I still got you, Hermione." The soft timber of his voice soothed her in a way that was so natural as if made to speak just to her and all Hermione could think of it was how sensible debating was completely illogical at this moment.

"Thank you," her fists finally released the wrinkled fabric before succumbing to slumber. As she drifted off, she vaguely recalled his lips pressing against her forehead, whispering promises of freedom she both craved and dreaded.

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