Torn

Disclaimer: None is mine, save for the characters you don't recognize

Author's notes: Hello everyone. I live, and I come with gifts. Well, hopefully a very short chapter can be called a gift. I just thought I shouldn't add more to it b/c it was already so heavy. Many thanks must go to three people: Logan (for without your review urging me on this chapter would have taken much longer to appear) Melissa (the ever talented sort of not official beta and idea thrower of mine) and of course Marc (You know why).

Again, I must thank all of you for the wonderful reviews. I haven't been able to respond to you all, but I still want to let you know that your reviews mean a lot and keep me interested in this story.

I apologize for the length of this chapter. I hope you enjoy it though, and let me know what you think.

*****

She was in the library, so things couldn't have been out of the ordinary. Everything was familiar. The smell of the books, the rows upon rows of shelves, even the heavy tombs that lay on the desk were familiar. No she had no reason to question the comforting surroundings. What she did find disconcerting however was that she couldn't remember why she was here in the first place, nor why Tyler Higgins was at her side smiling as if she had just given him a treat.

“Sorry I took so long, it was harder to find than I thought,” he said with that very uncomfortable smile of his.

He handed her a heavy tomb and looked at her with eyes that made her want to pull her robes tighter around her. She shifted away from him slightly.

“So this is what you were looking for, right?”

Hermione blinked up at him rather stupidly then glanced at the title of the book.

Herbs and Remedies found in Canadian Wild

Okay. Maybe he was into travel. Or he had a curious green thumb. Either way, Hermione knew that never in her eighteen years of life had she ever read or even heard of this book. Now granted she had read many, but she could guarantee that she remembered every title of every book.

And what had he said? She was looking for it? But why on earth would she be looking for it? And why was he sitting so closely? Lord she was hungry.

“So, I just want to say thank you yet again. I know you keep telling me to stop, but well it really isn't natural for a Ravenclaw to ask for help.”

She gave him a thin smile and ran through the events of the day. First there was that whole episode with poor Michael professing his affection for her, then snogging with Harry in the dark corner under the stairs (she nearly blushed at the memory of that), Ginny punching Blaise in the nose over a book, then her, Ron and Harry talking about Blaise and his connection with the aforementioned book. They had been heading to the Great Hall for dinner. Now she was in the library with Tyler Higgins, an arrogant, pig headed boy who thought he was god's gift to the female population. She wondered if dinner was still available.

“So what was it that you said was important?” Tyler voiced, but she paid him no mind as she glanced at the clock. It was nearly half past eight.

“Hermione?”

But what had she been doing for the last hour and a half?

“Hermione?”

Sitting in the library with Tyler discussing the Canadian Wilderness?

“Hermione.”

Voldemort. Hermione turned white. Oh Merlin. Tyler sounded concerned now and Hermione blinked and turned to him. “I'm sorry Tyler. I'm not feeling well.”

“Do you want to see Madame Pomfrey?”

No she wanted to see Harry. Hermione shook her head and stood. Where was her satchel? “No, it's alright. I'll just go to bed early.” Tyler looked slightly put out, but he handed her bag. She accepted it with shaking hands, mumbled her goodbye and fled.

She was running out of time. As she walked through the corridors, Hermione clutched her satchel to her side and blinked fiercely. She was running out of time. He was quickly gaining control and she still had not figured out the spells to prolong the side effects, to give her more time to be herself. Her breathing grew ragged and she ignored the stares she got from the students that passed her by. She could feel something building up and tightening in her chest and she grimaced, blinking even more vigorously and raising her eyes to the ceiling as her vision grew blurry. Her lip trembled.

Too soon. It was all happening too soon. Ron's birthday was approaching. He wanted to go to Steinheir and she wanted to go too. Their NEWTS were coming up. She wanted to pass them. Then graduation. Then there were schools after Hogwarts, or there were jobs. There was a future. There was life. There was Harry. Oh, Harry. A sigh escaped her lips and she struggled to hold the tears back. She did not want to die.

She could feel something tugging in the back of her head. It was like someone had tied a rope around her brain and was pulling it backwards. So, He was allowing her to feel Him take control this time. How considerate. “Hermione! There you are,” Ginny said with a grin on her lovely features. Hermione did her best to fight Him back, to throw a barrier, but with a laugh He brushed it aside.

“Come dear, Harry has a surprise for you.”

Oh no. Harry. Hermione struggled to speak, to decline, but only a muffled squeak came out of her closed lips. Ginny paid no mind and was not aware that something was amiss.

“He's up in the Astronomy tower.”

“How quaint,” the voice said in her head. She wanted to cry, but eyes were now curiously dry and devoid of any of the tears that had threatened to fall just minutes ago.

“Come along, love. Don't keep him waiting,” Ginny said with a cheeky grin and Hermione followed her down the hall.

****

They lay her on an iron bed. The Death Eater named Collins, a big, burly man with shocking red hair and a sour breath ran a wand along the length of her body. Immediately her joints froze. Her arms and legs became stiff and numb. Ever so slowly the itching numbness crawled up past her knees, slinked up her thighs, along her abdomen and sealed itself over her aching shoulders where another heavyset Death Eater firmly had his grip on her.

Petra was frozen on the table. She could feel the final kiss of numbness brush up along her neck with a prickly caress and soon all that could move freely were her lips and her eyes. They darted around the room, refusing to look upon the length of the needle that protruded from the ceiling and hung directly above her forehead. She refused to speak, but already she could hear Emma's sobs from the other room.

Without another word, the men left and shut the door behind them. They stood behind the glass that separated the two rooms made for the blood and the source, and Petra waited for the word. Already her eyes, no longer able to ignore what was to come, were now trained onto the sharp needle and her mind willed it to shatter and melt away. Ragged gasps escaped her trembling lips.

“Begin,” the voice said, and she whimpered.

At once the needle began to glow an eerie green and Petra let out frightened sob, a sound that echoed around the pitch-black room. She longed to move her head, to twist her arms free, throw her legs off the table and run. Instead she squeezed her eyes shut against the small bulbous substance that began to form at the tip of the needle. Her breath quickened as fear overwhelmed her and her chest ached to rise and fall with its speed. An orchestra of gasps and sobs and moans for it all to stop. Please. No. Stop. Echoed around her, and when the small bead of green began to tremble from the pull of gravity and dangle from the needle's tip, Petra screamed and shouted for her mother.

Then it dropped.

It landed daintily on her forehead and she shut her eyes at the impact. A raging heat ran through her insides, scraping at her magical essence and gathering it.

Another bulb began to form and that too dropped onto the same spot in the middle of her sweat slicked forehead. Then another. And another. Each drop a steady beat, and growing heavier and pounding fiercer than the last. She wanted to clench her fists, curl her toes, jerk her head and thrash on the table, but the spell kept her still and allowed her to endure the mindless agony of the steady drip dripping of the substance onto her forehead.

Her head was on fire, and her throat was raw, and the steady beat shook her eardrums so that all she could hear and feel was the thundering pounding of the drops of liquid and the blinding agony that followed it. Her jaw cracked as her mouth opened in a silent scream and tears leaked out of eyes that were squeezed shut.

This was what happened during The Walk, and this was what Petra was forced to endure throughout her captivity.

Emma had once said that Petra had nothing to worry about because they were never going to kill her. To which she replied heatedly, “You have no idea what I have to go through out there. So don't bloody tell me that I have no worries, because I have plenty. There's things worse than death, Emma. Far worse.” And she was right.

Beyond the glass Emma wailed as the trickle of blood seeped out of her but in the dark room, with the steady pounding pain of a hammer on an anvil smashing into her skull and pockets of her magical essence made to gather at the base of her neck where it would be eventually sucked through the Dark Lord's wand and transported into a goblet to be consumed with the blood, Petra wished for rest. She wished for death. Then there was that small part in her, a very small concealed bit that lay hidden and waiting; dormant as the procedure went on and only awakened once she was in the safety of their room. An eye for an eye as the saying goes, and Petra knew that if she waited long enough, if she watched and waited, knew their strengths and weaknesses that then she could extract her revenge. Then it would be they and not she that wished for death.

“Alright?” Emma breathed once they were taken back into their room. Petra lay on her side, wrists aching from the shackles that had held while she had waited for Emma's procedure to finish. Adel sent a glance in their direction before once again fixing her silver gaze on Wormtail who sat by Orla's prone form. Petra swallowed and gritted her teeth. Her fingers grazed the stone floor, tracing patterns along its rough surface.

“No,” she said. “But we will be.”

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