Chapter Text
“Hermione? Hermione!”
Hermione sat up, staring in confusion at the eyes across from her.
“Hermione it’s your turn” Harry stated impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table in front of them.
“Huh?” She asked, taking in her surroundings.
“It’s your turn” Harry reminded her, gesturing towards the muggle chest set in front of them.
“Oh” she replied weakly, “Right, yea.”
She picked up the black knight, pausing at its heaviness in her palm, before placing it on one of the available black squares.
Harry raised his eyebrow at her in question before assessing the board, giving Hermione the opportunity to look around.
The Scottish countryside flittered past the window, her cushioned seat rattling softly as she took stock of their closed booth. She realised that they were on a train, both oddly familiar and yet disconcertingly different. The side that Harry sat on was pristine white. Everything from the cushions he was sitting on to the clothes he was wearing. The white stretched and cleaved cleanly down the table, meeting the black that covered Hermione’s half of the booth.
Harry, unaware or uncaring of their strange environment, placed one of his pawns down and looked up at her expectantly.
She was momentarily startled by the contrast of his blue eyes, her skin breaking out in goosebumps as she searched the smooth expanse of skin around his throat.
She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she found herself surprised at the absence of another colour. Gold perhaps?
“Hermione” Harry sighed.
Hermione clumsily grasped her nearest pawn, “Right. Sorry” she muttered as she placed it down randomly on the board.
Harry renewed his assement of the board as he absentmindedly dipped his hand into a nearby paper bag, pulling foward a few soggy chips that he stuffed in his mouth.
Her gaze fell transfixed on the bright red packaging, a familiar logo stamped on the front. The words ‘Happy Meal’ stood out, pulling forward a memory that she couldn’t quite grasp.
A memory?
She tried to turn her attention back to the board, but the red paper packaging kept drawing her in. Why was it so red? Why was there so much of it?
“Oh right” Harry exclaimed, reaching over into bag and handing her a red box. “I forgot, this is for you.”
Hermione tentatively grabbed the paper box, feeling her unease grow. Harry once again turned back to the board, his finger’s drumming against the white wood as he chewed his lip in thought.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
“Harry” Hermione croaked, swallowing the lump in her throat, “Harry where are we going?”
His eyes flicked up to her in surprise before a Cheshire Cat grin broke out on his face. “You know what my dear? I actually don’t know.”
Hermione felt her stomach flip at his words, her blood run cold.
“Where would you like to go?” He asked.
Panic began to bubble up beneath her skin. “Home” she whispered through trembling lips. Unsure where her home even was.
He nodded knowingly, pushing his Rook foward to claim her pawn. Harry leaned his elbows forward casually on the table, propping his chin on his hands as he silently assessed her rigid stance.
“You’re turn” he sung before slurping his drink through a plastic straw.
Crossing her legs to hide their trembling, Hermione picked up her knight again. “Harry I- I don’t want to play anymore”
He frowned at her in confusion, though it felt disingenuous- like a child playing dumb after being caught.
“Hermione you’re not allowed to stop playing” he chided, “you have to finish the game.”
Hermione felt tears spill over. Everything felt wrong. She searched his expression for anything familiar, though she wasn’t sure what familiar was. Her eyes caught on the unmarked skin of his forehead and her face paled.
She shakily placed the knight down on the board, before opening the red box in front of her to escape his gaze. As she tore open the packaging she gasped in horror, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Don’t you like it?” Harry asked casually, as he leaned forward to clutch the item out of the box “I thought you were quite attached to it.”
Hermione shook violently as he gently turned over the plastic figurine, stroking its red hair in his hands. “Hercules” he murmured, “Killer of the Nemean Lion.”
Terror lurched through her body at the sight of the figurine, so out of place here on the train. It didn’t belong here. Not in this place. Not in his hands.
“Give it back” she whispered.
Harry stopped twirling the figurine, smirking as he dangled it in front of her. “But what if I want to keep it?” He replied teasingly.
Hermione wasn’t sure why, but she knew she couldn’t let him have it. Fury burst in her blood, hot and powerful.
He couldn’t take it.
“Give it back!” She snapped, diving for the figurine and clawing it from his grasp.
Her skin burned, cold fire spreading up her arm from where hand met his. She tried to pull away, but his other hand grasped firmly on her wrist, halting her moments.
“Hermione!” Harry gasped, the desperation in his voice slamming her gaze into his.
Harry stared at her wildly, green eyes blazing. “Hermione you have to run. He’s coming. He’s coming!”
The cold flames danced higher beneath her skin, burrowing into her chest. “Whose coming Harry?”
But Harry just gripped her harder, clinging to her with all his strength as his body spasmed and shook.
“ Hescominghescominghescoming ” he gurgled, his neck contorting to an unnatural angle.
Hermione screamed in terror as Harry’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. “Coming for what Harry!” She sobbed, “What does he want!”
Black eyes snapped back at her, Harry’s body lay still.
A chorus of whispers spilled from his bloodless lips.
“To collect.”
Hermione launched upright, an animalistic wail tearing through her throat.
She scrambled against foreign tiles, leaving streaks of mud and grime in her wake.
Squinting against the unbearable brightness in the room she frantically looked around, eyes landing on a steel drain against the tiles on the floor.
“Merlin!” A male voice exclaimed, causing her to shrink back away from the sound.
She threw herself against the closest wall, curling herself up against it to shield herself from the light. The faint sound of whimpering echoed around the barren room, dimly Hermione recognised it was coming from her.
Footfalls padded towards her. “Would you shut up?” The voice snapped. “Salazar’s sake if I knew you’d be this barmy I would’ve kept you unconscious”
Hermione held her breath, stealing a glance at familiar black dragon-hide boots. It had been a long time since she had seen another human and the presence of one, a male at that, alone with her in a room made her stomach roll. She turned her head to wretch on the floor, her body already preparing for what would come.
“Oh for fucksakes” he groaned, “Calm down alright? I’m not here to hurt you”
As she curled over to stop her stomach seizing, she glanced up from her crumpled position to see a man, no, a boy, clad in sinister looking Death Eater Robes.
He peered down at her maskless, a frown creasing between his brows and his wand firmly in his white knuckled grip as he watched her try to collect herself. The boy looked almost comical, his robes enveloping his small form. The look of disgust he was trying so hard to covey gave the impression of a child playing dress up.
This boy did not look like a threat. Though she knew more than any another that looks could be deceiving.
“What’s your name?” He asked harshly and she looked stiffened at the question. She had no name. They had stolen it a long time ago.
The boy pushed back his lanky brown hair impatiently, tapping his foot as he waited for a response she would not give.
He let out a long exhale, “Ok well whatever your name is, you need to come with me. The Dark Lord instructed me to collect a prisoner on this island and bring them in. I’m guessing that’s you?”
Again Hermione remained silent. She wasn’t sure she could speak, having been overwhelmed by the presence of another voice. The lack of silence felt deafening, the light burning her retinas.
The young Death Eater seemed to feel the opposite. He shuffled uncomfortably at her lack of answers, his mask of bravado slipping as she stared at him in terror and shock, giving way to an unsure child out of his depth.
“You were hard to find” he explained, assessing her questioningly, “I didn’t think the wards around the prison would let me in. No one else has been able to. My brother said he’d been brought in to practice on a prisoner a few years ago. Somewhere on the seventh floor. I didn’t think anyone would be there but sure enough there you were”. He paused, frown deepening, “ I thought you were dead at first, you were sleeping pretty deeply and I couldn’t wake you up. So I brought you here. Now that you’re awake though it should be easier”.
Hermione recoiled at his words, pressing herself further against the wall. She didn’t like to think what ‘easier’ meant.
Instinctively, Hermione scanned the room again, looking for anything she could use as a weapon or a means for escape. She recognised the iron bolt door at the end of the far wall, a twin to the one in her cell. Realising she was still within the prison in some sort of communal bathroom, she wondered if she could run for it. Maybe she could find another cell to barracate herself into while she waited for Darryl’s return.
How long had she been asleep for? A few hours? A few days?
Another horrifying thought sprung in her mind- what if Darryl never came back at all?
The Death Eater eyed her warily as she stood on shaking legs, her knees buckling as her withered frame prepared to bolt. Hermione managed a few stumbling steps before collapsing back to the ground, a weight round her neck throwing her off balance.
Tentatively she touched the cool metal around her throat, her fingertips tracing a scaled collar coiling around her neck. She peered wide eyed at the boy standing above her, his gaze flashing with pity.
“It’s a precaution” he murmured, swallowing hard, “It halts your magic, so you can’t find back.”
Hermione squashed down the urge to vomit again. He had touched her while she slept. He’d had his hands around her neck and she hadn’t even realised. She clawed at the collar desperately, trying to tear the foreign object from her skin.
“Hey! Stop” he snapped.
She snarled in response, spitting and kicking as she rithed on the floor, smearing grime and blood against the white tiles as her ragged nails tore at the skin on her throat. A rabid animal backed into a corner.
The Death Eater raised his wand in warning, “Oi!” He barked, “Stop it!”
Hermione began to scream in anguish. It wasn’t fucking fair. They had let her believe they wouldn’t come, that she could live and die in isolation, untouched by their bloodied hands. That she would die quietly, slipping away as starvation claimed her. It would have been peaceful. It would have felt safe.
She could hear the boy yelling, his voice breaking as he threatened her with curses and pain.
But the spell never came.
His wand lay dormant between his quivering fingers. He was out of his depth, and so she screamed into oblivion.
Tucked under the collar around her neck, Hermione felt the ring still wrapped securely around her throat. She clung to it tightly, the opal digging into her palm.
Her voice grew hoarse as she pictured her cell wall. She let the image ground her, building it up in her mind stone by stone. She pictured the layers of moss and mold, the droplets of moisture that dripped softly to the ground below, the cracks she could still feel under her fingertips.
She built her wall. Letting it block out the light and the sounds and the horror. Until the darkness and the cold wrapped her protectively in it’s cloak. Until there was nothing else.
Hermione opened her eyes, her gaze unfocused as she took in the boy still hovering over her. He looked lost. His shoulders slumped in defeat as he stared at her crumpled form, the sadness in his gaze ageing his otherwise youthful face. She wondered how a boy, barely fourteen, ended up in this situation. Why was he, out of all the others, sent to collect her for her death?
“You need to shower” he crocked, “He said you have to be presentable.”
Hermione swallowed, understanding.
She shakily rose to her feet. Obliging to his request. She knew when she was beaten.
What did it matter how her life ended? All that mattered was that it would. She had been surviving for so long, fighting for so long- and for what? Where had that gotten her? It would be a kindness for it all to finally end.
He gave her a long lingering look, one that reflected her own. He seemed so much smaller now that she stood.
“Episky” he murmured, pointing his wand to her neck.
He stared down at his wand, chewing the inside of his cheek in thought.
“My name is Forsyth” he whispered in a rush, as if afraid someone was listening.
Hermione blinked in surprise. Death Eaters didn’t just give their names to their captives. They didn’t bother with any common courtesys. They were above it.
To give his name meant he saw her as human.
Shuffling awkwardly, the boy, Forsyth, turned and walked towards the rusty pipe fused to the wall. Tapping his wand against its spout, water began to rush foward, pooling around the drain on the floor.
“You’ll have to get undressed” he said, avoiding her questioning gaze, “you can wash and then- then we'll… go.”
He let the implication hang in the air.
Steeling herself, Hermione began to undress.
As the last of her tattered clothing was stripped from her body, she watched as the colour drained from his face.
Forsyth opened his mouth as if to speak but no sound came out. His eyes widened in shock and horror. Hermione swore she even saw fear flicker across his face.
“Wha-“ he began before the rest of the words failed him.
He stood staring, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “I- you- what, what is that?” He stammered, gesturing to her body.
Hermione didn’t know how to answer. She’d never anticipated someone laying eyes on her. Looking back, Hermione realised that seeing another person hadn’t even been a possibility for her. The future was some foreign entity she could not touch. Dwelling on it would only bring dread of things she could not control, or worse, hope for something better. Both scenarios brought nothing but anguish, so she instead focused on her life in the present. Finding little pieces of peace in the cold and the dark.
Hermione looked down at her frail naked body, finally able to see her waxy skin after years of low light.
The result was startling.
Ribs protruded out like wings, stretching so far out from her concaved waist she could probably fit her fist under her rib cage. Her hips, no, her pelvis she realised, her entire pelvis was visible, with her leg bones jutting out like reeds.
Hermione realised she should be disturbed. Instead, she viewed her body with detached curiosity. Unable to grasp that the body she’s examining is her own.
“Why? Who would-“ Forsyth began before falling silent. Hermione could see the various questions flashing in his eyes.
“What is that?” He choked. His voice trembled as he cycled back to his original question.
Hermione cast her eyes over the mirage of scars. So many they overlapped each other, puckering over one another in shiny lumps of red, pink and white. Evidence of the cruelty at the hands of her captors.
But Forsyth wasn’t staring at the scars of her pain, he was focused on the others. The intricate ones carved with surgical precision.
The ones she’d created.
“Prayers”, she whispered hoarsely. Unwilling and unsure of how to even begin to describe her reasoning for self-mutilation.
The answer seemed to slap awareness back into the young Death Eater. As if he hadn’t expected the walking corpse in front of him to respond.
He cleared his throat, “Shower” he ordered, lowering his gaze as he gestured to the pipe.
He stepped back as Hermione shuffled over to the frigid water.
Forsyth handed her a bar of soap as she stood unmoving under the freezing spray, her body long accustomed to the numbing sensation.
“Wash” he prompted. But Hermione remained still, refusing to raise the soap to her body.
“Merlin’s beard, you have to fucking wash!” He snapped.
It seemed, like her, he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. Sighing in frustration he grabbed her wrist and tugged her towards him.
A panicked cry burst out of Hermione instinctively. The boy reacted immediately, dropping her wrist and stepping back.
“I’m not- no, it’s not for-” he stammered, red flushing his cheeks.
“It’s not for…that” he rushed. “I haven’t- I wouldn’t do….but you need to be clean.”
Hermione cringed at the implications of his words.
He dropped his gaze solemnly. “No, no- they aren’t planning to… it’s not- you’re not there for… that”. He finished quietly, eyes trailing on the floor.
“Are they going to kill me?” She asked softly, her voice scratchy and raw.
The young Death Eater hesitated. “I-I’m not sure” he answered quietly, “Probably.”
“Would it be quick?” She murmured.
He looked at her then, the unspoken answer heavy in his eyes.
Hermione knew the answer already. She’d experienced most of it herself.
Forsyth stood there defeated, the bar of soap hanging limply by his side.
“I’m sorry” he whispered, “He’s holding my brother until I return.”
Pity stabbed her chest as she took in the boy's broken expression. A child forced to strip her and bring her to her death. Forced to carry out unspeakable acts in the name of his master. Hermione trusted he was telling the truth, his face hid nothing. The boy was still innocent. He wouldn’t last long, despite completing this task. Voldemort had no room for weakness.
“Ok,” she whispered. “Ok. Hand me the soap.”
Tentatively he passed it to her. His shaking fingers brushed hers. Warm fingertips meeting cold.
Forsyth stepped back once again to allow Hermione to wash. Turning his back to grant her some privacy. An act of foolishness or trust, she couldn’t decide. Either way, there was nowhere for her to run and with the collar and her physical state, she couldn’t fight.
It will be over soon. The nightmare was about to end.
Once she scrubbed herself as best she could, she stumbled over to the folded white bed sheet Forsyth had laid out.
As she picked it up, Hermione realised it was a white hooded robe. Pulling it over her matted wet curls she stroked the material. It was thick and silky to the touch, whatever it was, it felt expensive. A strange clothing choice to be executed in, but then again Voldemort had always been a man fixated on symbolism.
Dressed as a sacrificial lamb she announced she was ready to go.
Forsyth turned round to examine his offering to the Dark Lord, his eyes landing on the top of her head.
“Umm, your hair” he stammered, “I- I don’t know any hair charms”. He fiddled his wand nervously as if the state of her hair would seal his death.
Hermione didn’t have the heart to tell him that not even the most advanced hair charms and a tub of Sleekeazy could fix it.
“Just cut it off” she sighed, wondering why they were sitting here pondering over her hair as if she wasn’t about to become a corpse shortly. Though she could understand him wanting to do it right if his brother's life was on the line.
He fumbled with his wand before aiming it at her head. Incantating a shaving spell, hardened clumps of hair fell to her feet. As each lump fell, Hermione’s head began to feel lighter. The cool air kissed her bare scalp.
Satisfied with his work Forsyth lowered his wand and reached into his pocket. Pulling out a folded handkerchief, he gently unwrapped the edges, unveiling a silver arrowhead.
He paused, frowning.
She wondered what he was thinking. If he could, would he save her instead? Would he run? If given the choice, without the threat to his brother, would he have chosen light?
Instead, she asked “Where are we going?”gesturing to the port key in his outstretched palm.
“Just outside Hogsmeade” he replied softly.
So, Hogwarts then, Hermione thought. Fitting her life would end at the place where this all began. Where she had discovered the wonder of magic, where she had made her first friends and where she had lost them.
Forsyth hesitated before grabbing her hand. Interlocking their fingers and giving her palm a light squeeze. It was an act of both comfort and apology. She gave him a weak smile as if to say “it’s ok” because she understood. If-
A roar split the air.
The bathroom tiles rattled around them, vibrating through the castle.
She knew that roar.
“What was that?” Forsyth cried, dropping the portkey in fright.
The roar sounded closer, the prison seeming to come alive with the sound. The ground shook as Forsyth crouched down, reaching for the portkey as he clutched her hand tightly.
“Wait!” Hermione cried, tugging him back.
“We have to fucking GO!” He screamed, pulling her back towards him. Terror shone in his eyes.
Hermione tried to wrench her hand away from his vice-like grip.
“Wait! Just let me say goodbye!” She pleaded, clawing at his arm to try to get away.
To get to him.
“Darryl!” She cried.
The roar became deafening, tiles shattered as the walls began to split open.
“DARRYL!” Hermione screamed.
He had come back in time. He had come back for her.
Forsyth pulled her to the ground, wrestling her desperately as he lunged for the silver arrow, just out of his reach. He cried out in terror as debris began to rain down around them.
The bathroom door exploded in a shower of metal and rock. Ice instantly branched out towards all corners of the room. Darryl loomed in the door frame, his robes billowing like black smoke.
Death incarnate.
Forsyth screamed as Darryl rushed towards them. Rushed towards her.
Hermione reached out towards her friend. Tears coated her cheeks. He was here. She could say goodbye.
But as her hand stretched out for his, white robes reaching for black, she felt the familiar tug at her navel.
Anguish washed over Hermione as she began to feel the bathroom swirl away. Screaming mixed with roaring as the portkey activated in Forsyth's hand.
“DARRYL!” She wailed as his bony fingertips fell a hair width short of hers. His black figure rapidly distorting as she pulled away from him and the home she’d come to know.
The world was a spinning whirl of colour as she’s dragged from one place to the next. She screams at the unfairness of it all. Hot rage boils her blood. She is hissing, hitting and pushing as she tries to peel her body away from Forsyth’s whilst they’re thrown wildly through the Ether. Hermione fights with all the strength she had left.
She had to get back to Darryl.
Hermione lands hard on her back. The force knocking the air from her lungs. Something hot washes over her as she tries to draw breath. She tastes copper as wet thuds rained down around her.
She rolls over and is violently sick, throwing up bile from her empty stomach. Dimly she realises Forsyth is still clutching her hand. She tugs away forcefully.
Forsyth's hand moves easily with her, still gripping tight and somehow surprisingly light. Wiping to clear something sticky out of her eyes, Hermione finally glances down at the hand she is still holding.
It is not attached to a body.
Where the rest of Forsyth should be is just a meaty chunk that ends at what used to be his forearm.
Hermione frantically uses her other hand to pry Forsyth’s rigid fingers off hers. Casting his hand aside as she scrambles away in horror.
As she slides and stumbles on her hands and backside, she realises she isn’t lying on some muddy roadside outside of Hogsmeade.
She is lying in Forsyth.
Partially submerged in a large pile of blood and meaty pulp.
Hermione stares numbly at the horrific scene around her, utterly frozen in disbelief that the boy who was handing her soap mere minutes ago was now a pile of slop.
A low whistle sounded behind her.
She vacantly turned her head to see three blacked robed men donning the familiar silver masks.
“Well, look what we have here!” one chuckled. “Quite a mess you’ve made.”