March 1998

A scream rang throughout the manor. It had torn from within her, but the sound was foreign as it echoed around the room. It bounced off books she would never read, artifacts she could never touch, and the stoney faces of a family insulted by her existence.

A blow to her face was quickly followed by a kick in her side. She wheezed a breath but was thankful for the reprieve. Blunt blows were a relief to the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. Blood trickled from her mouth and onto the rug. They'll have to burn it later to cleanse the room of her filth. She'd laugh at the ignorance if that same ignorance wasn't about to kill her.

"Think this is funny, do you?!" a screech sounded as rapid footsteps approached again.

Oh, perhaps she had laughed. Hermione was fairly certain she'd lost control of her bladder hours ago so it wouldn't be surprising if a manic laugh had slipped out.

She felt the familiar pull of a levitation spell and the nauseating drop in her stomach as it was released. Her limp form hurled towards the ground emanating a sickening snap as her leg landed awkwardly beneath her. The pitiful moan that escaped her lacked the energy from her first broken bone. How wretched, to be so tortured you could no longer cry.

The subtle smell of iron filled the space as magic crackled around her and she braced herself for the spell. Red light flashed and she was hit at her hip. The heat radiated outwards as she relived all her previous pain, tenfold. The appendix that had burst when she was nine and the subsequent surgery now felt like a molten orb within her gut. The menstruation cramps that she'd quietly endured for years contorted and pulled at her back, spreading down her legs to the freshly broken bone. It reached for the long-healed break after falling from a tree at five years old. The now broken wrist and collarbone earned in earlier beatings flamed furiously next to the streak of white-hot pain where her curse scar lay, bestowed upon her in the Department of Mysteries. Every break, every scar, every split lip and bruise returned to her in an instant, webbed together by electrified veins of agony.

She felt the fabric of her sanity begin to tear as it had so many times before. Images of Neville's parents flashed behind her eyes, and she mourned for them. The feeling of her very identity being torn from her was excruciating. But as it had each time before, she felt a silver string weave its way into her mind and begin to stitch it back together. She wondered which memory it would give her this time. They had begun as full memories, playing in her mind as the string stitched the tears together again, waiting for the curse to end. Now, she could feel its fatigue. Whoever it was, they were getting tired too.

Stitch, stitch, stich. The movements were becoming less surgical. Instead of slippery silk, she felt a slight pinch at each suture.

Then it all stopped. The pain left an uncomfortable hum throughout her body, but it was gone.

"Why won't you break?!" another screech sounded at her ear.

Hermione's head lolled to the side to flinch away from the noise. She hadn't felt Bellatrix climb on top of her. Expanding her chest to breathe was almost impossible and her eyes widened as she tried to inhale. She locked onto a pair of silver eyes and a cool rush fluttered throughout out her, calming the burn left by the spell.

Thank you.

Her mental sigh of relief was short lived. Bellatrix had brandished her cursed blade and began to carve into Hermione's arm. It was as if every Cruciatus Curse she had endured were being forced into the letters that branded her skin. Hermione's scream split from her chest, arching her back almost to breaking point.

Open your eyes!

She heard the voice call through her mind and when she did, silver eyes locked to hers again and the thread appeared in her mind once more. Still tired but strengthened by the direct access. Hermione was broken from the cyclical hours or torment and relief, she wished it would give up. Perhaps Bellatrix would relent if the string let her fray and unravel. If there was nothing left of her, perhaps it would end.

Then, just as she was about to beg the string to let her go, the pain disappeared. A single memory was left. The image of a flickering candle in a library she knew was far, far from here but swore she could almost reach it.

Somewhere, a witch raised off her chest.

Somewhere, a door flung open.

Somewhere, a knife was held to her throat.

Somewhere, a chandelier shattered.

Somewhere, strong hands gathered her up, holding her close.

And somewhere, she landed on a beach with her face gently cradled between those hands and as she blinked past the candlelight, she once again saw silver eyes.