Resistance
Chapter Four: Search
Hermione managed to scrawl busily on her latest roll of parchment for about an hour after Ron left. It was then that restless agitation overtook her, and she was unable to continue sitting still. She paced the library idly, seemingly unsure what to do with her hands; first they were in her pockets, then crossed over her chest, then running through her hair, making it arc back from her forehead in even wilder spirals than usual. She sat back at the desk, fingers clamping instinctively around the quill, but she would bounce upward from the seat before she could write a single word.
Strangely enough, while she was concerned for Ron and Fred, off on their errand for her, and hoped that they would come back from it safely, it was Harry with whom her thoughts were consumed, nearly to the distraction of all else. Perhaps that isn't so strange after all, she admitted derisively to herself.
She sat in her chair again, but this time, paid no attention to the writing materials arranged neatly on the desk. Instead, she forced shaky hands to fold themselves in her lap, and tried to think on exactly what Harry meant to her…
Harry…It was easier said than done, she reflected. He was so tangled up with her that she could hardly discern where she left off and he began. His omnipresence was amazing, exhilarating, undeniable. She recalled the fear and determination that warred in his face, when he and Ron had barreled through the lavatory door to see the troll turning the stalls into matchwood, or the radiant relief that lit up his features when she appeared in the Great Hall after the mandrake draught had restored her from her Petrified state. She saw his concerned face hovering above hers, as she coughed up water and pushed streaming hair out of her face after the Second Task. She thought of how he'd returned to the common room after that Quidditch game he'd missed last year, how the expression of defeat and humiliation and shame had melted into exultation when he'd realized that Gryffindor had won, how he'd swept Ginny up into his arms and…
She grabbed the quill again and had it poised over the parchment, but froze. A blob of ink slowly bubbled up from the nib, was pulled downward by its own weight, and made a small splat on her paper. Her fingers were clenched so tightly around the quill that her knuckles were white. She didn't want to think about that.
And why not? Part of her asked snidely. She wouldn't answer that, she wouldn't, not even to herself. She thought of Harry's beaten, swollen features and his defiant eyes. She thought of Ginny, fighting with the Order in Hogwarts, now lying so pale and still in a small bunker bedroom. Fighters, both of them, fighting the only way they could. And what was she doing? She, who had lived through the horrendous loss of life with hardly a scratch, was sitting in a library, writing. What had really changed? But that line of thought wasn't profitable at all, she chastised herself, trying to shake off the self-pity. You're fighting just as much as they are, in your own way. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, and abruptly arose from the chair again. Where were Ron and Fred?
Do you think you don't deserve him? The voice chided again. Do you think others are more deserving than you, because they're braver, more athletic, more vivacious? You've been all things to him and for him.
All things…she sighed glumly, except what he really wanted. The picture of Harry kissing Ginny replayed itself, the very image seemingly emblazoned on her memory. She could not help but watch the scene play itself out.
But last summer, it had been Ginny who was left behind and Harry who had willingly left her. It had been she, Hermione, who had accompanied Harry on his quest for the horcruxes, along with Ron. She remembered looking back at the Burrow, as the three of them strolled down the lane toward the Apparation point. Ginny was standing there, framed by the window, watching them, her face set like flint. The baby sister, the tagalong, left behind once again. For an instant, Hermione had felt sorry for her. And the tiny little tendril of relief that had then unfurled in Hermione's stomach? Well, it was simply gladness that as few people would be endangered as possible. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, not even really believing herself.
And then there's Ron, she thought glumly. After all the drama of sixth year, they had finally acceded to the inevitable, beginning a relationship in the short interval of time between the end of term and Bill's wedding. (She briefly wondered where Fleur had been during and following the battle.) But after the wedding, it was time to hunt for horcruxes. In a very calm and detached manner, Hermione had explained to Ron why their relationship needed to be put on the back burner, why nothing could come before their need to be there for Harry, aiding him in whatever way possible. Ron had looked slightly disgruntled, but had understood - if not exactly agreed with - the reasoning behind her decision. They had fallen back into their old routine easily, good friends who bickered and occasionally held hands or - more rarely still - kissed, though it hadn't gone much beyond that. She was startled to realize that she had been quite content with that, though she got the impression that Ron had been biding his time, and rather impatiently at that.
And now? With her - whatever this was - for Harry? Had it always been there and she just didn't realize? It can't happen. I can't do this to Ron. I can't do this to Ginny. The timing is wretched, and how I feel doesn't matter. Even as she conceived and gave birth to these silly, selfless thoughts in her head, she felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. She realized with astonishment that she didn't want to give them up, give him up. She wanted … she wanted…
She sat down again, and pulled the chair up so roughly that it scraped noisily across the floor, and was close enough to the edge of the desk to nearly cut off her air supply. She berated herself fiercely for succumbing to teenage melodrama when all of their lives were at stake. Harry needs me, she thought, and it doesn't matter how I feel about him, even if he did feel the same way, which he doesn't. I can't fail him.
Renewed zeal zapped her eyes with an extra gleam, and she resumed writing with fervor. Time flowed by unheeded, and she knew it must have been very late indeed, when the soft rasp of the library door opening signaled Ron's return. He sat in the adjacent chair with a distinct air of fatigue, throwing the hood of the black cloak back over his shoulders, not even bothering to unfasten it.
He looked very tired out by their ordeal, his appearance made more foreign by the fact that his hair was glamour-charmed to be a chestnut brown. He rolled his eyes upward to follow her gaze, and said,
"Fred reckoned we were a bit too recognizable." Ruefulness danced across his face, but there was something else, something he was not telling her. He muttered a quick finite incantatem, tapping himself on the head with his wand, and restored his hair to its original ginger.
"How did it go?" she asked, twisting around in her chair, and leaning toward him in anxiety.
"Oh, we got the ward detectors, if that's what you mean," Ron said, in a deliberately off-hand way, refusing to meet her eyes. She gave him a steely glare, but he still would not look at her. She settled for slamming a book down on the desk, with such force that he jumped.
"Ronald Weasley, you are the most pathetic excuse for a liar that anyone ever saw! Now, will you tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to hex it out of you?" He gave her a dark look that seemed to say, you're going to be sorry you asked, but heaved a great sigh, and began speaking.
"Fred talked to this shop-owner in Knockturn Alley - where we got the ward detectors -" he added for clarification. "Fred was really amazing. I mean, he's really got a lot of nerve. He just waltzed into that shop like he bought Dark artifacts every day, and talked to that bloke like they were best mates. I was - I was - I was afraid I'd wet myself," he admitted with chagrin, and Hermione felt a reluctant smile tug at her lips. "At any rate, he let slip that there was some big news expected to be revealed at this pub down at the end of the alley, and he was closing up his shop early to go hear what it was. So Fred and I decided - "
"Oh, you did not! Ron!" Hermione chided indignantly, looking both fearful and perturbed.
"Will you just hush and listen?" Ron returned, looking at Hermione with something like sympathy, which frightened her more than anything else he'd said or hinted at so far. "So - so we went down there, and the Death Eaters were having some kind of - some kind of party." The disgust was evident in his tone and on his face. Hermione felt revulsion cloud her features as well. They'd both heard of those revels that Death Eaters had, those Hedonistic orgies where terrible, unspeakable acts occurred. "I mean, it wasn't quite like one of those," he added, reading the look on her face. "It was right out in public and everything, but all of the Death Eaters and their hangers-on seemed right jollied up about something. We - we thought it would be useful…if we could find out what it was."
"You went inside, didn't you?" Hermione asked, torn between anger and admiration. She tried to imagine walking right up to a Death Eater celebration, like you owned the place, and couldn't see herself pulling it off. Ron shrugged in response to her question.
"We barely made it in. It was worse than the World Cup for people crammed up against each other. And - and they - they weren't really the most savory sort of people either. Anyway, they started talking about their great victories, and everyone was cheering every other word, and raising tankards, and firewhiskey was sloshing everywhere. They were just so damn happy!" Ron's face worked, as he struggled to continue, and Hermione was filled with a renewed compassion at how hard it actually had to have been for both him and Fred to watch people gloat openly over the deaths of their family. "Then some bloke climbed up on the counter, and started blathering on about the `munificence of the Dark Lord', or some such rot, and then - then he mentioned Harry."
Their eyes met, and Ron seemed to regard her solemnly for quite a while. Hermione had felt every joint and sinew in her body go rigid when Ron said his name. She could hear her pulse beating in her ears, to the exclusion of almost all else. What if he's dead? He can't be dead. Please don't let Ron say they said he's dead. The rhythmic litany repeated itself over and over in her head.
"He talked a lot of rubbish about the Prophecy and how he never doubted that the Dark Lord would prevail, and how could anyone believe that a snotty little Mudblood spawn - " Here he looked at Hermione apologetically, and she waved at him to continue. " - spawn would - would ever be any kind of challenge to such a great and all-encompassing wizard as Lord Voldemort. He said that the only surprise was that it hadn't happened sooner."
"That - that what hadn't happened, Ronald?" Hermione croaked, her eyes suddenly feeling dry and red. Pending tears burned the oversensitive tissues. Ron looked at her again, and suddenly reached for her hand, clasping her cold fingers between his.
"He's not dead, Hermione," he said softly. "Voldemort's holding him, just like you thought. He wants to make a big public display of his death. Show everyone in the Wizarding World that all hope is lost." Ron made an abrupt movement with one hand, as if he were brushing his hair out of his eyes. Hermione's hand went limp in Ron's, as if she'd forgotten that he was even there at all.
"He hasn't broken Harry yet… so he's going to kill him in front of everybody," Hermione said with horrible certainty. "Dear God." She stared off into middle distance for a long time, with tears brimming in her eyes. "When are they bringing him?" she asked hoarsely, forcing the words painfully from her throat. It seemed obvious to her that Voldemort would bring him to London, along with a full complement of Death Eaters, and kill him, perhaps in the Ministry itself. Maybe in front of that nice statue that replaced the one they destroyed, Hermione thought dismally. Ron looked as if he were in total agony, but confirmed her supposition, shaking his head with dejection.
"They didn't say when." Hermione appeared to waver for a moment, and was obviously fighting back total hysteria.
"I was hoping to test some of my theories before we started in the morning," she said, looking at Ron with a slack and hopeless countenance. Her voice sounded almost disinterested. "But now we don't have any time left at all. We've got to go."
Ron looked momentarily torn, as if there were a thousand questions that he'd like to ask first, but he did not speak, except to say,
"All right, Hermione."
~~**~~
The last fragment of the Order gathered in the War Room at Hermione's request. She could see the disapproval on the adults' faces, which dissipated somewhat after hearing Ron and Fred's tale.
"Don't you see?" Hermione pleaded. "I was right; he is alive! But there's no time left. You know as well as I do that once Voldemort brings him to London…" She trailed off, but there was no need for her to finish. The place where they had him would be warded as if held the crown jewels. Every Death Eater there was would converge on the location to celebrate the victory, and they would all have been instructed to watch for the Order members that were as yet unaccounted for. They would have no chance in hell. "I think that the Death Eaters are mainly here and at Hogsmeade and Hogwarts. They've been deployed so they can hold the positions they've won. I don't think there will be many at a manor in the middle of nowhere watching a boy wizard who's being held behind a magical dampening field."
"How many is not many?" Remus finally asked, clearing his throat a little. Nobody asked how Hermione knew he was behind a magical dampening field.
"I don't think it'd be more than fifteen," she answered him seriously.
"Fifteen?" Tonks burst out with incredulity. "So the three of you are going to take on fifteen Death Eaters?" Her eyes flickered quickly from Ron to Fred to Hermione. The three younger people exchanged guilty glances.
"Like hell you are!" Remus and Mr. Weasley said, nearly in unison, and earning, despite the gravity of the situation, a reproving look from Professor McGonagall.
"Well…no, actually we're splitting up," Hermione stammered, looking askance at both of the men. "We don't have enough time to investigate everything together. We - if one of us finds something, we're going to go get the others."
"How are you going to do that? You won't know where the other ones are!" Tonks replied, sounding angry. Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out a tangled handful of medallions, which tinkled together softly as they swung from the chains she held.
"I made these. They're keyed to individuals. If we think of the person wearing it, we'll Apparate directly to that person, regardless of where they are." Tonks looked grudgingly impressed, and a reluctant smile played around the edges of Lupin's mouth."Regardless of wards. I made one for everybody." Hermione looked around uncertainly, as if unsure whether or not the others would accept the medallions.
"Well, of course, we're coming to help you," Tonks said reassuringly. "You're going to need all the help you can get, graduated from Hogwarts or not, and - "
"Someone will need to stay with Ginny," Professor McGonagall said quietly, and Hermione felt a sudden pang of guilt that she had forgotten all about her housemate and friend. She watched the color slowly drain from Ron's face- and less dramatically - from Fred's face as well.
"I'll stay with her," Mr. Weasley said in a soft, distracted voice, looking again, as Hermione had noticed earlier, somehow very gray and very old.
"You don't have to come with us." Hermione said suddenly, holding up her hands as if she were going to warn someone off, or placate them. "You'll need to - " she stopped suddenly, looking abashed, as if she did not want to be the one giving orders to these people, all of whom had much more experience fighting the Dark Arts than she did.
Tonks was looking at her with something like understanding, in contrast to her more hostile attitude previously, and she nodded once at Hermione, before speaking herself.
"What will we need to do, Hermione?" she asked placidly, causing everyone else in the room to look at her with poorly disguised surprise. Hermione felt rather flummoxed herself.
"Well - I thought, that is - we - we don't know how much time we have left. And I would think it wouldn't be much at all. There's so much ground to cover, and if - if by chance - if we do get Harry back, then you know - he - he's going to be really angry, and if we thought the other battles were bad, then with - " She stumbled suddenly to a halt, but her implications were clear. Then imagine how bad it'll be with a Voldemort who's already taken over everything looking for a pitiful ragtag band of fighters, with a score to settle.
"We need to find others," Tonks finished for her, the analytical Auror training, reaching the conclusion before Hermione could do so verbally.
"Others?" Lupin and Ron said together.
"Augusta Longbottom," Mr. Weasley said wearily. "Neville. Maybe the Lovegoods.. Fleur…" he heaved a weak sort of sigh as he spoke his daughter-in-law's name. "Other people on our side, scattered or perhaps disconnected because of the war." Hermione wanted to smile at the cautious light of hope that dawned in Ron's eyes. Had he really thought that they would be the only ones left? Wouldn't you, if half your family had been wiped out in one day? She felt instantly contrite about her light thought.
"If we're going to relocate, then we should find as many people that we know to be trustworthy as we can. Before the wrath of Voldemort falls on us all," Hermione said darkly. "And it surely will, if we take away his prize."
Tonks appeared torn between admiration and worry for them. Hermione knew she was still seeing them as the schoolchildren she'd first met a few years ago, and was struggling against that instinct.
"I sure hope you know what you're doing," she said quietly, but Hermione felt a surge of gratitude and love for her acceptance of what they were attempting. To cover up this sudden upwelling of emotion, Hermione began to briskly hand out the medallions, engraved with individual names, which each Order member promptly donned, concealing it beneath his or her clothing.
Ron shouldered the bag he'd been holding loosely in his hand, swinging it up and over his head to rest across the breast of his battered black traveling cloak. Hermione and Fred each had one as well, and pulled over their shoulders in much the same manner. She wore the black cloak she'd transfigured for her trip to Diagon Alley. Inside each satchel resided some food, water, and a small row of corked potions for healing, tucking in securely by a roll of bandages. Nobody spoke as the three younger Order members solemnly regarding the elder.
"Ron! The detectors!" Hermione exclaimed suddenly, her hand flying up to wave about frantically with remembrance. Ron flushed a little, and hastily dug something out of the pockets of his robes, tossing one each to Hermione and Fred, and clipping the small metal band near the tip of his wand. These would not enable them to get past wards, but merely detect them before they walked into them, thus activating them and notifying someone. Hopefully, the detectors would also help in identifying and subsequently dismantling the wards. "Did you get the object you wanted used as your portkey?" she asked, looking at the two Weasley boys. They exchanged glances.
"And just what do you think Death Eaters are going to do if they find an old tin can in my pack?" Ron asked.
"I didn't say it had to be rubbish," Hermione replied, looking affronted. "These are…different. It ought to be something that can be touching you at all times. Like a watch, for instance," she finished, and held out her hand, indicating her watch, still smashed, strapped onto her wrist.
"You really ought to repair that," Ron pointed out, as the lacy glitter of the shattered glass, which almost completely obscured the face of the watch, threw sparkles from the firelight around the room.
"Call it a memento," Hermione said abruptly, swallowing hard. She didn't have to be able to see the watch's face to know what time it said. Less than two minutes before she lost Harry. She would fix it when they'd found him again. "The portkey is activated by sound. You won't need to hold it, twist it, or manipulate it in any way. It simply needs to be touching you." Fred looked fascinated, and Hermione knew that this kind of innovation was right up his alley. She had told the boys about the idea, but they had not yet seen it in action. She smiled at her captive audience, unable to restrain a little glimmer of pride and self-satisfaction, and said, "Watch." She then sang, in a soft, slightly self-conscious voice,
"Twinkle, twinkle little star," and vanished. Mr. Weasley started visibly in his chair, and Remus muttered a mystified,
"What in the world?" under his breath. A moment later, Hermione emerged from the library, and strolled back into the War Room.
"How do you do that?" Tonks breathed in amazement.
"Portus exaudio." Hermione said. "Then you have to set the song. You can change it whenever you want. So if someone gets hold of your portkey, they can't make it work, unless they know the song. I was working on trying to make it activate just if you thought the song, in case you were Petrified or something, or key it to just one person's voice, so that it wouldn't work if anyone else sang the song, but I didn't have … time…" she finished lamely.
"What you've done in this small amount of time is nothing short of incredible, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said.
"Do we have to sing `Twinkle twinkle little star'?" Ron asked dubiously. Hermione looked at him sharply for a moment, before realizing that he was teasing her, and her face melted into a grateful smile.
"You can make the song anything you want, Ron," she said, softly, not in the mood to spar with him.
"We'll find him, Hermione," Ron said, more to make her feel better, than because he believed it, she was sure, but she appreciated the gesture all the same.
"I know. We should go. It'll be dawn soon, and it's better if we leave before there's light." The boys set their portkeys, and a little abashedly set the songs as well. Hermione felt a knot form in her throat, as Ron chose "Weasley Is Our King". She turned and busied herself with the strap of her bag, partly so they wouldn't see her fighting tears again, but also so she wouldn't have to see Mr. Weasley envelop both of his sons in a gigantic hug. I have to make sure they come back to him, she thought, feeling immeasurably guilty once again.
"Tell us where they are!" A masked Death Eater, looming impossibly large over the huddled form of Harry Potter, crumpled so in the corner of the stone room that he looked like a mere pile of tattered clothes.
"I'd rather die!" Harry shot back fiercely, all of the hatred and anger that he could not express in other ways forced into those three trembling words.
"That would be too merciful for the likes of you. The Dark Lord's got plans for you, you know. We'll be leaving soon." Blood dripped into Harry's eyes, as he succinctly and graphically told the Death Eater what the Dark Lord could do with his plans.
The subsequent Crucio made him pass out.
Hermione did not realize she'd made a noise, until she found everyone staring at her once again, as she stood with tear-filled eyes and one hand clapped over her mouth.
"Hermione?" Ron asked, in a tone of questioning concern, laying a hand lightly on her arm. Hermione moved her mouth up and down for a moment before any sound would come out.
"Oh…oh God - God, Ron…we've got to hurry," she said, in a weak, frightened voice that did not sound at all like Hermione. Ron didn't ask any questions, but merely nodded his head gravely, and turned to Fred, saying,
"Let's get out of here." As they mounted the steps to the joke shop, Ron looked at Hermione with undisguised worry.
"Are you going to be all right?" he asked. She nodded, pushing her hair away from her face, even as her trembling hands betrayed her.
"They're hurting him," she said simply. "They're hurting him because they want to find us." He looked at her for a long moment, and seemed to find what he was searching for in her eyes.
"Merlin help the Death Eater that crosses paths with you," he said cryptically, after a moment. There was no time to ask what he meant, Hermione reflected with some frustration, as they crouched on the floor of the darkened shop, and determined exactly where they were going to go, along with their secondary destinations, if the first ones didn't pan out.
Wordlessly, the three of them moved, wraith-like, to the alley behind the shop, and Apparated away with hardly a sound.
~~**~~
Hermione looked down on the Riddle house from her vantage point on the hill, concealed from any watching eyes by a knotty, half-dead old tree, clinging desperately to the slope with clawed roots. The graveyard lay between her and Little Hangleton, with the Riddle House, large and foreboding, a short distance outside of the village. The moon was long since set, but dawn was just a gray promise on the horizon.
There were no lights visible from the Riddle house. She had her wand out carefully, walking slowly forward, a Disillusionment charm in place, and the ward detector clipped to her wand did not turn blue until she reached the edge of the graveyard, where Harry had been held fourth year.
So, this was it, then. Whether or not there was still anyone here, the wards were still up, in a circular fashion, she mused, probably with the house at the center. She sat down on the grass, calmly, in the shadow of a tombstone, and began to quietly work the magic that would enable her to slip past the wards. Her wand thrummed slightly with every ward she got around.
There were layers of them, and the time seemed to slip by so quickly that it was alarming. The grayness grew more prevalent, and Hermione grew worried that she'd be seen, even though the dim uncertain light of dawn would probably still provide adequate cover, coupled with her Disillusion. This is taking too long! She thought frantically. There isn't enough time. What if they had moved him already? She didn't even know if she was in the right place.
Her hands were shaking, and the wand slipped in her sweat-slick grip, as she made it past another ward. She moved one leg, straightening it to stretch out the kinks, and her foot scuffed the side of the gravestone, making her jump.
And then something altogether unexpected happened.
A low rumble seemed to surge suddenly from the ground, ending as quickly as it had come, doing nothing more than gently vibrating the ground beneath Hermione. She froze, at first afraid that she had done something wrong and tripped some sort of alarm. But after that rumble passed, she noted two things. A light flickered on from one of the basement windows in the Riddle house, for such an infinitesimal length of time, that she thought she'd imagined it.
And someone screamed. It was cut off so quickly that Hermione stood to her feet in utter fear. But then she was left to wonder, if her fatigued, over-stressed, emotionally vulnerable mind had manufactured the whole thing.
Don't be absurd! Practical Hermione said snidely and superiorly. You wouldn't know a hallucination if it danced up to you wearing Dobby's tea cozy. A half-hysterical, wild smile wavered on her face, as she thought fondly of Ron's one-liners.
Harry was there. She hadn't thought Voldemort would do it, dismissed as some sort of would-be tactical mistake, but he was there. Voldemort had intended to finish it there, where he'd started the whole thing, by killing his parents as a mere teenager. Her heartbeat was deafening, and her hands shook nearly uncontrollably, as she tried desperately to turn her mind back to the task at hand. Her wand buzzed slightly in her hands. Another ward down. She moved forward again, but the detector was still blue. She sighed, and realized that her wand had blurred before her, due to the tears stinging her eyes.
Dammit, Hermione! She thought angrily to herself. Pull yourself together! Again, thinking of Harry forced her to calm herself down. She was here to help him, and she had to focus on her task. She narrowed her eyes, glaring down at her wand as if it had personally offended her, and resumed her spell-casting.
The last two wards came down with almost astonishing ease, and she cautiously began to move forward again. As she wove her way carefully among the tombstones that gleamed in the dimness like crooked teeth, she saw the light flicker again, very briefly, from one of the windows.
Something was going on.
She began to move again, more rapidly this time. Perhaps the commotion at the Riddle house could work to her favor. Maybe they wouldn't be watching so closely. But she also was thinking of the bitten-off scream, and hoped that it didn't signify something even more ominous. They said they wouldn't kill him, she thought pleadingly. They said they wouldn't. She conveniently ignored the fact that she was clinging to what a Death Eater had said, while coercing a prisoner.
She had passed the small cottage at the base of the small hill, on which the Riddle house sat, overlooking the village. It was in almost as much disrepair as the big house, although ivy had only just begun to encroach upon its face. She looked around her suddenly in fright, her mind flying back to the day on the Hogwarts green. There was no cover here. The sun was beginning to rise. Even with the Disillusionment charm, someone looking right at her would be able to see her movement. She faltered visibly, hesitating, poised on the balls of her feet, looking back and forth from the Riddle house to the direction from whence she had come.
The light flickered again, quickly, as if someone was making an effort that it not be seen. Straining her ears at the nearly complete silence, she thought she could hear a clamor, noises of shouting and running. Almost as an afterthought, Hermione decided against going for Ron or Fred. There was just no time.
She had nearly circled the house, careful to dodge quickly past the windows, which looked down upon her like leering, waiting, vacant eyes. In fact, she was nearly past it before she saw it, almost completely concealed behind an enormous overgrown bit of shrubbery.
A basement window, on the ground level, was broken, and she inwardly rejoiced at her good fortune. Her wand had been able to detect that the house was warded, but those wards would not extend to opened windows or doors, unless those same windows or doors were specifically sealed. She slid through it carefully, watching for dangerous protruding shards of glass, and landed lightly on her feet with scarcely a sound. A puff of dust billowed up around her, and she felt her throat spasm with the desire to cough, which she desperately quelled.
The basement room had obviously not had any human contact for years, and Hermione's eyes watered fiercely, as she tried to see in the near total darkness of the room. She stood in the quiet for a moment, and decided to risk a little light, with a whispered Lumos.
It looked to be merely some kind of storage room. Dilapidated cardboard boxes were stacked nearly to the ceiling, with great grey, fuzzy layers of dust and cobwebs coating them. There was a smell of mold in the air, and Hermione noted that part of the floor on which she stood was damp and a little mucky. She had made it to the door, and was about to exit, when she noted her footprints leading from the window, a screaming sign that an intruder was about.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" she whispered, lifting and disarranging the dust, so that her footprints vanished. She paused with her hand on the doorknob, her heart thundering rapidly in her chest. Did she dare open the door? There had been noises before - or at least she thought there had been - and now there was silence. She wasn't sure that she liked that any better, imagining all of the Death Eaters in the house, waiting in the corridor beyond for her to open the door.
"Fenestra," she said, pointing her wand at the door. Immediately, a small square panel of the door shimmered into transparency. The dim, dingy hallway beyond was quite empty. With a relieved sigh, she cast Silencio on the door, to forestall any creaking, and slipped into the corridor.
She had traversed about half the length of the corridor, when she heard voices and footfalls approaching. She cursed to herself, and thought that, perhaps, she should have retrieved Fred and Ron after all. She tried the nearest door, and it sent an electric current of pain through her that sent her flying across the hall. She just barely managed to stop herself from colliding noisily with the wall opposite. Bloody hell! She thought vehemently, in a fairly faithful imitation of her best friend. She briefly toyed with and then discarded the idea of Apparating. She didn't know if there were wards up, and she was not about to give up this ground she had so newly gained.
The voices were closer; at any moment, the footfalls would carry - two, she thought - people around the corner. She looked down at herself to make sure her Disillusionment charm was still active, and slid to the floor, pushing herself as far back in the shadows as she could. She folded her hands in her lap, and prepared to sit perfectly still.
This was easier said than done, when two Death Eaters came around the corner, their hoods and cloaks firmly in place. Every instinct in Hermione's brain screamed at her to run, to hide, to get out of their way, to draw her wand! She forced herself to be absolutely motionless. The Death Eaters strode past her, the cloak of the one nearest her all but snapping her in the face. They stopped at the door that had rejected Hermione's entrance, and keyed it open with their wands. As it opened to allow them inside, Hermione caught a glimpse of a stone floor and the dim glow of a green light from inside.
Her heart rose into her throat. That was the room! He was inside that room. Harry! She thought, with a kind of mental sob. She wasn't sure how she could get in there, but she was sure she couldn't just continue to sit out in the corridor and hope nobody saw her. Slowly, she rose to her feet, feeling grimy just from the few seconds on that dirty floor.
There was a door adjacent to the one that led to Harry, opening only centimeters away, as the two door frames were nearly touching each other. She used her Fenestra charm to determine that that room was empty, and quickly and quietly entered it.
The room was small, but in contrast to the storeroom by which she'd entered the house, it was quite clean. There was not a stick of furniture in it, but she noticed a narrow window running nearly the whole length of one wall. A thick crack ran jaggedly through that wall, passing through the window, and the glass therein was also cracked. She stepped closer toward the window, before processing that the window was set into the wall shared with Harry's cell.
Oh, sweet Merlin! Hermione thought, in a kind of dazed shock. He - he - he's afraid to face Harry, even wandless and in that dampening field, so he lets his Death Eaters torture Harry, while he watches. She peered anxiously through the window, observing that it appeared to be some kind of one-way glass. The entire cell was suffused in a green glow, which was emanating from the floor. Harry was sitting in the corner, no longer in the center of the ring. With this kind of exposure, Hermione thought, his magic had probably been so shot that he no longer needed to be within the ring for the dampening field to work.
Harry! She thought again, joyously, and jumped back from the window, startled, as Harry suddenly looked up toward her, and his eyes danced around the upper corners of the room in obvious confusion. Her frazzled mind took a second to process what had just happened. The Legilimency, she remembered. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage, and moved back into the window frame. The two Death Eaters had their backs to the window, and Harry was still looking toward it.
Harry, she thought tentatively, it's okay. I'm here now. Just hold on for me. The effort to perform Legilimency when she wasn't really used to it was great, and she left their communications at that for now, uncertain whether or not he'd even heard her. She turned her attention to the crack running along the wall, and wondered how that had happened. She bent down, pressing her ear to the crack, but found that it had been sealed with a Silencio as well. What if the rumble caused the crack, and then I heard him screaming before a newly cast Silencio sealed it off? She wondered, and peered back out of the window again, almost instantly wishing she hadn't.
She wasn't sure what they were doing, but he was curled into the fetal position, his head tucked protectively down toward his knees, while they rained curses down on him. Suddenly he looked up, reaching one arm up toward the window, toward her, even while his mouth was moving in a soundless scream. She backed away from the window, unable to face it, to process what they were doing to him. She placed one hand on her chest, only to find that she was breathing very rapidly, and tried frantically to calm herself down. You won't help him like this, Hermione, and tried to feverishly think of what exactly she could do.
It was when she heard footfalls and the murmur of voices again that she realized that there was probably not much wisdom in lingering around a room from which Voldemort frequently watched torture. Dear God, if he comes in here… she thought, and the voices stopped right outside the door. She could hear the frantic, low whimpering of what sounded like a very frightened girl, the high tones sticking out plainly above the lower rumbling voices of the Death Eaters.
She moved into the shadows behind the door, hoping that if anyone came in, she would be at least partially concealed behind the open door.
But no one entered.
Instead, she heard Harry's door open and close, all noise once again melting into silence behind the wall of the charm. Against her better judgment and all too cognizant of the danger she was in, she rushed back to the window.
Voldemort was in the cell with Harry. Judging by the look on Harry's face, and the way the Death Eaters stood shoulder to shoulder in between them, this was the first time he had done so. Harry dragged himself to his feet, obviously in tremendous pain, barely able to stand upright. He spat some scathing comment at Voldemort that Hermione, of course, could not hear, and was Crucio'd by a Death Eater for his pains.
Hermione had never been so proud of him.
But Voldemort had not yet played his trump card. From behind him, at such an angle that Hermione had not seen, he withdrew a girl. She was in dirty, torn Muggle clothing, and her hair cascaded, long and snarled, down her back. Her face was smudged with dirt and blood and stamped with terror, but it was quite clearly - herself.
Hermione stared at the tableau with unmitigated horror. She wondered wildly who this poor Polyjuiced soul actually was, and what they intended to do to her. She saw Harry's eyes flicker uncertainly from the window to the girl in front of him, and even more dread welled up in Hermione's soul.
He knew she was there. He had felt her presence, perhaps even heard her thoughts, and now he saw her, or so he thought, in front of him. Harry! She screamed desperately in her mind. That isn't me! That isn't me! He gave no sign that he'd heard her, and the weary expression of unbelieving despair on his face made her think that he had not.
Harry took an involuntary step toward the girl, his hand extended, and Hermione could see the dark bruising that shadowed his wrist and arm. Two fingers were curled in protectively, appearing to be broken. At his movement forward, Voldemort jerked the girl back by her hair, causing her to emit an involuntary frightened cry. The misery and mute apology on Harry's face made Hermione's already fragile heart crack into a thousand pieces.
Harry, please listen! She tried again, not even sure if she was even getting through. That's not me! It's a trick! That's not me!
Voldemort gave a perfunctory order, whipping his wand in the direction of the floor. Harry flung a longing glance at the faux-Hermione, and appeared to be on the verge of sinking to his knees on Voldemort's instruction. Hermione watched from the window, her fingers clenched so tightly into the small sill that she was leaving marks in the wood.
Suddenly he stopped, leaning against the wall with one hand, looking for all the world like a stiff breeze would topple him over. Hermione noticed the dried blood crusted around his eyes and ears. His lip was a pulpy mess too, and she wondered if he'd been hit, or if he'd bitten through it in an effort not to cry out. His eyes were fixed on the girl, and Hermione saw his mouth move as he asked her what looked like a casual question.
The girl stared back at him, wide-eyed and uncomprehending, rendered all but completely incapacitated by paralyzing fear. Whatever Harry had asked had made Voldemort angry, for the resulting outburst made even the Death Eaters cringe in fear. The dark wizard yanked the girl's head back, forcing her to look upward to relieve the pressure on her hair, and - instead of just using Avada Kedavra - he used Diffindo on the pretty white column of her throat. Hermione gasped, both hands covering her mouth, as she struggled not to throw up.
Blood splattered all over the floor and onto Harry, whose legs just folded up underneath him, as he vomited weakly in the corner. Voldemort was laughing, as he pushed the body carelessly onto the floor, leaving it where it fell, as if it were a discarded article of clothing.
He threw another remark over his shoulder, as he and his entourage left, that had Harry scrabbling at the wall with bloodied fingers, trying in vain to stand again, driven nearly wild with anger. The door slammed loudly, causing Hermione to startle violently, as it was the only sound to carry through the silencing charm.
She stood stock-still, her eyes fixed on the door, but the clamor of feet, punctuated by laughter and jeers, passed by the room, and faded into more distant parts of the manor house.
Unsteady hands gripped the small windowsill once more, as Hermione, almost unwillingly, peered into the room again. She was treated to the unusual and singularly discomforting scene of Harry, painstakingly crawling across the cell, gathering up the bloody corpse of the girl he supposed was Hermione, and crying brokenly over her body.
TBC
Okay, there's another chapter. Now I know that last part was pretty dark, but I did rather enjoy writing it. I suppose I'm just that kind of sick person! It will be getting lighter (relatively speaking), because - of course! - the next chapter is the rescue! So stay with me folks, please!
I hope everyone is liking the story. I know it might not be everybody's cup of tea, but I'm hoping for more reviews. This story isn't much below average, with regard to reviews, compared with my other stories, but it sort of seems that it isn't generating as much interest. Maybe that's just me…
Anyway, I know it's dark now, but if you'll check out my other work, you'll find that I haven't written an unhappy ending yet! I'm not altogether sure that I could manage it, actually.
Cheers!
lorien
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