Chapter image (made by Jeanie of The Dark Arts): Five
Chapter Five
"The secret of happiness is freedom, and the secret of freedom, courage." - Thucydides
Hermione woke to find herself in a brick room with a dirt floor, random rocks poking out to dig into her tender flesh. Her body ached all over and she found herself confused about the reason explaining why she was where she was, until it all flooded back to her like a hot poker in her chest. She'd been captured, and on top of that her parents had been killed without preamble. Her eyes stung fiercely with tears, but knowing where she was, she pushed them back and rolled to sit against the wall. Her legs were scraped and dirty from her fall, her skirt torn and twisted uncomfortably, and Harry's jersey was still in tact but dirty from lying on the floor for however long. There was what she thought to be a window high up on the wall, but it was covered with wood so she couldn't see whether it was night or day.
Exhaling heavily, she examined the rest of her captive quarters, finding nothing but dirt and rocks. There was a thick wood door with a slot the size of a doggy door near the bottom sitting adjacent to her and though she knew it was likely locked, she stood up and walked over to tug on it as strongly as she could. It didn't so much as make a noise of protest for all her work and she finally gave up with a disgruntled huff.
Moving toward the window, she took her shoe off and threw it at the piece of wood, hoping it would knock it out and she could scream for help. She had no idea where she was, be it a home or a castle of some sort. She didn't know if there were wizards living nearby or if her distressed calls would be heard, but she threw her shoe a few more times, unable to reach it even on her tip toes. The wood stayed in place and eventually her shoe got stuck up high on the thin ledge, mocking her from where she stood. Frustrated, she pondered whether she should try the other shoe.
After a few moments of weighing the pros and cons, she could hear footsteps outside of the dungeon room and considered her options. Rolling up in the fetal position, taking whatever they threw, or standing with confidence and defiance in her posture and eyes. Moving to the center of the room, she crossed her arms and lifted her chin, caring not that she looked like something they'd dragged around and left in the dirt.
The door swung open, creaking heavily and letting in a little more light from the torches that lined the area. She could see that she was most likely in a castle. The area outside of the dungeon was made of old bricks and various other wood doors appeared to lead to other dungeons holding captives or empty. There was a man dressed in black robes, part of his face burned and rippling with scarring, patrolling the area. Two men stepped forward, one in full Death Eater attire, the other sporting a smirk she knew all too well.
"It appears that you've awoken, Miss. Granger. Is your room to your taste?" Lucius drawled, a brow pulled up in question. "Perhaps it's not dirty enough?" he asked in a mockingly sweet voice.
"It's exactly what I anticipated," she replied, her expression feigning delight. "I couldn't expect much from you, after all. I mean, look who you serve..." She jutted her hip out, sneering at him. "I wouldn't expect him to understand what life outside of obscurity would be like. While he was trying to keep away from those capable of tearing him from his self proclaimed pedestal, the rest of us learned proper housekeeping and lived a life of comfort and leisure. You remember what that was like, don't you, Mr. Malfoy? Before you were forced into Azkaban for becoming a servant," she said, tipping her chin and lifting a mocking brow.
Lucius sneered, taking a few sharp steps toward her, a flicker of surprise crossing his features when he found she didn't run or cower. He collected himself quickly, however. "We'll see how smart that mouth of yours is when you're standing before the most powerful wizard alive."
Hermione looked up at him defiantly. "With Headmaster Dumbledore's recent passing, that leaves only one wizard those words could define and I do believe I've schooled with him for the last six years. I know this will be hard for you, but try and understand me when I say his name." She leaned a little closer, her voice lowering. "Har-ry Pot-ter," she enunciated spitefully.
Lucius' hand flew out, connecting with her jaw quick and hard. Her face slipped to the right with a sharp twinge in her neck, but she kept her feet firmly planted on the dirty floor beneath her and turned her eyes back, ignoring the blood that dribbled down her chin. Gathering it, she spat it in his face.
"Careful, you wouldn't want to sully yourself," she mocked scornfully.
Wiping his face with a deep sneer, he motioned to the man beside him, who grabbed her by the hair and yanked her out the door. Following behind them, Lucius snickered to himself. "I must admit, Miss. Granger, it does amaze me that you can feign strength under your circumstances."
"It shouldn't. Should I die, I'll know that I died for a cause." She turned slightly, frowning. "As I'm sure you'll believe you have when you finally meet your deserved end."
He laughed, though it was crisp and dark, void of true humor. "And they called you the smartest witch of the age," he muttered, disgust lacing his words. "Look around you, mudblood, and face the facts. Victory for the Dark Lord is so close you can taste it. With the loss of you, Potter is just another pitiful boy who couldn't compare."
"What d'you mean?" Hermione asked, struggling against the tightening of the hand in her thick curls.
Lucius didn't reply as they had found their way into the main room. A Great Hall of sorts, she supposed. White marble columns lined the sides, ivory and black stones made up an elaborate floor as they walked out into the large, nearly empty area. Their footsteps echoed loudly, lifting up to the high arched wood ceiling. The masked Death Eater and Lucius brought her up to the steps leading to a tall backed chair. Pushing her down so she was kneeling before the robed man who stood with his back to her. Hermione lifted her chin when the hand let go of her hair, staring defiantly up at the back of a man who had done all he could to destroy all that was good in the world, who had threatened her and so many others lives.
Voldemort turned slowly, his head first, greenish grey skin becoming visible. He was completely bald, his body radiating a sense of power and confidence. His black robes moved around him elegantly as he turned entirely, his scarlet slit eyes falling to hers, hate and disgust burning in his gaze. Hermione felt fever take hold of her body, but did her best to keep her face completely neutral. He took a seat in the chair, moving his robes forward and sitting with his head high and his back straight. The only word that seemed to slither into her mind to describe him was snake-like. He had no nose, but instead two small slits next to each other, sitting centered between his hateful eyes and lipless mouth. "Miss. Granger, I can't say it's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"The feeling is mutual," she replied, hoping her voice didn't shake quite as much as her insides were.
He simply stared, one side of his mouth curling slightly. "The brave act is quite unnecessary and not as believable as you hope." He leaned forward slightly, his arms braced on the arms of his chair. "I'm sure you know what your detainment means."
"That you put far too much emphasis on my friendship with Harry?" she asked, lifting a brow. "Congratulations, Riddle, you've successfully captured a girl whose only completed sixth year from a house unguarded when you surprise-attacked it." Her hands came forward to clap mockingly, despite their shaking. "One witch against a crowd of adult Death Eaters." She frowned, her brow lifting. "Although, if we'd like to get technical. At least one of yours is dead, another was Crucio'd extensively, it took them a good half hour to catch me and only succeeded because my parents were good, kind, loving people." She nodded, her mouth pursed. "Perhaps you should reconsider your recruitments. They appear to need more training."
"Silence, mudblood," Lucius shouted, grabbing her by her hair and yanking her back. "You will not disrespect your superior."
"I hadn't thought I was," she replied, her voice strained against the tightness of her throat from the angle he'd pulled her into.
"Release her, Malfoy, she has a point," Voldemort said, sound unaffected.
"M'lord?" Lucius asked, his brow furrowed and his mouth pursed with confusion.
"She speaks the truth when she says that my own men, my hard trained and supposedly obedient and faithful following, have not risen to the challenge against one girl," he spat, his mouth curling in a sneer as his red eyes slitted to glare darkly at Malfoy. "You disappoint me," he said, his hand raising quickly to flick his wand.
Hermione felt the hand tighten in her hair and feared that she'd be taken with Malfoy when he was thrown back. Instead, however, the man who'd dragged her to the room was thrown and Lucius stood where he was, his hand slowly loosening from her dirtied curls. She could hear the crush of bones and flesh slamming into the hard floor behind her and covered her wince quickly.
"Does that bother you, Miss. Granger?" Voldemort asked her, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You realize in a war that death and torture are quite regular."
"Regular to whom?" she asked, her eyes falling to stare at the floor as if not wanting to sully herself by looking at him. "You blame such acts on the war, but in reality I'm sure you get some sick pleasure out of it. If this is how you treat your own men, I can't imagine why they believe they're getting anything out of serving you." She lifted her chin, staring at him and hoping her terrified eyes didn't give away her fear. "When they realize that you're only using them for your own benefit, I hope the coup d'état performed is less disappointing."
He tipped his head at her. "You're quite unlike the many who've knelt there before you," he said, his tone filled with curiosity. "I can see your fear, little mudblood. In fact, I can practically smell and feel it. Your heart is nearly jumping out of your chest, you're shaking so bad it's a wonder you're still sitting up straight, and yet each word you speak is clear and precise." He shook his head, his mouth curling with derision. "Were you not a dirty mudblood, I could've used you well in my army."
"I wouldn't lower myself," she spat at him, her chest heaving with her anger and fear.
He laughed, loud and mocking. "Make no mistake, your position kneeling before me is simply a testament to you and everybody who stands for the same cause. You may not be here to see my victory, but you'll know of it as you lay dying in your cell. You have lost!" he told her, rising from his seat, his expression becoming dark and hateful.
His calm exterior was long past and he stood tall and menacing before her, sheer power coming off of him in waves. "You were the last cog in the plan and you can spit your dislike and throw your temper tantrums, but inside you know just as well as I. Pathetic little Potter will be reduced to nothing at the news that his precious mudblood is long gone and prophecy or not, I will rule this world and the one you came from."
He stepped down closer to her, forcing her to crane her neck back as she stared at him, her nightmare becoming more real by the second. He reached down, his long, knobby fingers wrapping around her throat and lifting her up without a hesitant move of his arm. She hung, her throat tight and letting no air through, her legs dangling beneath her, reaching for land and relief. "I can't express my gratitude enough, my dear. For you have given me my long overdue victory." He leaned forward, his red eyes beating into hers, causing a dark chill to roll down her spine and shake her to her very core. "How does it feel to know that you are part of history? The marker of a new world; a better world?" he asked, his voice low.
She choked, her lungs burning for air. Tears sprung to her eyes, whether from realization or lack of air, she couldn't be sure. He dropped her, hand unwrapping and letting her fall without preamble. Her knees slammed into the ground with a painful crack and her body fell forward, heaving as it gasped for air.
"Take her back to her cell, Malfoy," Voldemort said, making his way back up the stairs to his chair. "Where's Pettigrew? I want a progress report," he shouted angrily, his voice echoing in the hall.
Hermione's arms were yanked back as Malfoy pulled her up from the floor roughly. He hurriedly walked away, dragging her behind him as she rubbed at her throat and tried to tell her feet to move before her with the same confidence she'd walked into the room with. She could practically hear Voldemort's degrading laugh in her ears, following her out of the room. Her eyes scanned her surroundings this time, taking in the elaborate maze-like essence of the castle structure. Paintings lined the walls and Hermione didn't hesitate in believing they were all pureblooded families, going far back into the past.
They passed various other Death Eaters, each of them wearing black robes and walking tall and important, sneering at her as they saw her pass. She couldn't help but wonder how many Slytherin students were walking these very halls, looking out at her and laughing to themselves over how she'd finally be paying for all that she and her friends had done to them and their kind. She looked up at Lucius as he continued walking fast and precise, hand tight around her upper arm. Hermione couldn't help but wonder if his son was here too. Was he sitting somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle enjoying her torment as if it were Christmas morning?
They reached her cell and Hermione mentally ran through the steps they took there. If she somehow managed to escape, she knew how to get back to the Great Hall, though she wasn't sure how much that would help given it was Voldemort's main area, she assumed from the chair. There were various passageways she would have to explore, she knew. She's passed numerous hallways lit with torches on her return to her captive quarters, and a dozen doors that resembled her own, though she heard no voices from inside telling her that there was anybody but her being held. Lucius pushed her into the room without a words notice and locked the door before walking off, his sharp steps echoing back to her.
Finding herself kneeling on the dirty floor once more, she quickly turned over to sit against the brick wall. Pulling her knees up, she examined the bruised and scraped flesh that stared up out of dirt and stinging blood. She wanted to brush it away, but her hands were just as dirty and she wasn't sure it would help any. Wiping them on her torn clothes was pointless as she seemed to be covered head to toe in dirt and blood. Tears lifted to her eyes but she absolutely refused to let them fall. Moving to the darkest corner in the room, she curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her bruised legs and letting her dirty hair cover her face. Her body shook painfully, from cold or the aftershock of her fear she wasn't sure, but it didn't really matter.
Sniffling, Hermione closed her eyes. She didn't know how long she'd be there, whether they were going to let her starve to death or send somebody to come in and kill her at some random, unknown time. But she wouldn't die letting them see her fear. She was a Gryffindor and she would die with all the courage she could fine. The only thing she could do now was hope. Hope that Harry understood that she didn't blame him, that he had to go on and do what they had planned without her, that she believed in him wholly and that Voldemort's plan wouldn't succeed. Some selfish part of her couldn't help but wish, however, that they'd come for her. That Harry or the Order or anyone really would save her. It was unlikely, it wasn't selfless or intelligent, but she was just a seventeen year old girl who had done everything in her power to help save the world. She could wish, couldn't she?
Voldemort sat scowling in his high backed chair, listening to the scurrying feet of his minions as they hurriedly got into position, kneeling before him in pathetic servitude, rising only when he ordered them to find Pettigrew.The girl has surprised him. Mudblood or not, she had courage in her. More than most of his followers, in fact. She shuddered in fear, her heart pumping out an unsteady and surely unhealthy rate, but still she spat her words at him as if she somehow earned the right to speak to him in such an insolent tone.
Had she learned nothing? Was his legacy not enough to scare her into being a mute? What books had she read, what information had she learned, what sights had she seen, to believe that her Harry Potter could possibly be more than he, Lord Voldemort? More pure of blood wizards and witches than her had shook before him, pleading for life and limb, and yet she simply knelt there, defiant as ever. It enraged him. So much so that he barely took pleasure in cursing and Crucio'ing the House Elf that came to inform him Pettigrew would be arriving before him soon. It didn't stop him, however, and he kept the torture up until he heard the footsteps coming forward.
The twisted body of the House Elf lay on the ground in a mess when Pettigrew and Malfoy stepped before him. Its limbs laying out in odd angles, as if reaching for its mercy and not finding it. Its screams had long stopped and its tears had bled dry. Voldemort nodded to a robed servant nearby and paid no attention as the dead creature was drug out of his vision. He wasn't surprised to see Pettigrew gulp. Despite being a Gryffindor and showing enough incentive to betray his pathetic friends, Pettigrew was just as fearful of him as any other. He wondered over how two Gryffindors could be so different. A mudblood girl of only seventeen had enough gumption to stare him in the eye and call him pathetic, while his own servant of seventeen years could barely get himself to speak without stuttering.
"M'lord," Pettigrew said, his voice so high it nearly cracked.
"Status," he ordered, leaning back in his chair and staring down at the two with barely concealed anger.
"Potter has been told and he hasn't taken it well," Pettigrew admitted with no small bit of satisfaction. "In fact, he went into a rage, denying that the girl was dead. Lupin informed him that her house was burned to the ground and the parents were dead, they assumed she too was gone." He grinned, his eyes falling and his fingers coming together in deviant delight.
"And?" Voldemort prompted, tired of his display of amusement. He wanted facts. He wanted to know Potter was sobbing his pathetic little heart out, raging over poor-me's and considering death a blessing.
Pettigrew jumped at his voice and then returned to his report. "He went to the house, ignoring their pleas to stay behind. He..." He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet and as Voldemort grew impatient with the telling he turned to Lucius. Taking the hint, Malfoy reached out to backhand Pettigrew over his head, prompting the rat to let out a groan of pain. "He en-entered the house, m'lord. So bent on the fact that she wasn't dead, he broke inside and searched it as it burned around him."
Voldemort sat forward slightly, intrigued and angrily surprised. "It still burned?"
"It was raging with fire. He ignored the people around him, including the Weasleys and Lupin. Truth be told, I was sure he was going to die inside." Shaking his head, Pettigrew frowned. "Jumped out a window just as the house collapsed and the fire took over. He was taken away by the Weasleys and I followed." He smirked now, pleased with how the events were going. "The Order called a meeting. Too caught up in the event, they hardly saw me in the room," he boasted, nodding eagerly. "They've decided not to come searching for her. Too risky, they say. Not enough incentive."
Voldemort laughed, loud and gleeful. So the Order had left her to her own devices. Not enough incentive indeed. Dumbledore's almighty Order couldn't be bothered with a girl. It was obvious to him they were scared. Whether they thought her unworthy or simply didn't believe they could face him, he didn't care. Surely the knowledge that his Order had failed him too would be the last string for the Potter boy.
"And the boy, Pettigrew? How did he take it?" Voldemort asked, turning to him with a sharp gleam and a vicious smirk.
Pettigrew swallowed tightly, shifting on his feet. His triumphant expression had slipped away to be replaced with discomfort and fear. "He..." He mumbled the rest and Voldemort sneered at his audacity. Realizing his mistake, Pettigrew straightened up before Malfoy could strike him again. "H-He's left the Burrow, m'lord."
"Left?" Malfoy asked, lifting a manicured blond brow.
Nodding vigorously, Pettigrew stuttered, "He's c-coming for her. S-said he wouldn't let her think sh-she didn't matter." Shaking his head, he looked almost miserable behind his fear. "He's joined forces with the Weasley twins and his other best mate." He let out a shuddering breath before continuing. "They apparated before I could find anything else out. They h-have bags though. They're planning a r-rescue mission." He cringed, his expression twisting with fear as he awaited his punishment.
Voldemort sat back, his anger welling up in him. Potter was supposed to crumble not rise up. He was supposed to curl up in a ball and wither away in his agony, not gather his anger and come at him. No fear, however, there was no way that he could find him. There were countless supporters that would stop him before he made it to his holding. The mudblood would long be dead by then. And even if he did succeed, there were still his horcruxes out there to keep him immortal. Yes, Potter could fight and search but nothing would come of it. He'd fall apart soon enough. When all of his searching brings up nothing, when all of his energy goes into finding the mudblood fails. He would fall then. It was only a matter of time.
"M'lord?" Malfoy asked, wondering what was to be done now.
Voldemort shook his hand, his mouth curling.
"S-Sir?" Pettigrew queried.
"Let him come," Voldemort said, waving his hand indifferently. "Let him search and agonize over it. And if he should somehow find me then this will be over with a much more satisfying end. Instead of letting him crumble, I'll watch him die before my eyes." Voldemort rose from his seat. Certainly, triumph was on the horizon. "Yes..." he hissed, smirking. "Let the boy come. If the journey doesn't kill him, I will," he vowed, sneering out at his agreeable servants.
