Anchor and Rose | Dramione

Twenty-Seven.

Consciousness became a virtue for Hermione over the next four days. She fell in and out states of blankness, deep sleep and hysteria and states of full awareness that were weirdly short-lived.

Maybe it was a result of shock, a result of being pulled away from the clutches of her newfound safety in Southwark, or maybe there was some sort of sleeping curse placed inside of the dungeon she was being locked in, to torture her.

From when she could stay awake, all she could make out were dark arches of stone, standing on top of black cold wood. There was little light, just one tiny candle in the corner of the room that burned for two days straight, but then on the third day died away and sizzled out into a defeating twilight.

Hermione woke to a frail scream. It echoed throughout the dungeon, piercing her ears. It wasn't the first scream, wail or thud of pain she had heard since she was dragged here. The screams surrounded her, parroting around her from what she assumed was surrounding dungeons.

It physically pained her that she could do nothing to help.

Her tired half-closed eyes stared into nothing but blackness, silent, terrifying blackness. She could faintly hear the click of high heels pacing somewhere around her which made everything slightly more haunting.

With a deep breath, she pulled her knees into her chest and cried.

She had felt so strong since the Locket wand chose her. It made her empowered and competent. Now-she just felt weak, withering on a cold floor and wishing she was anywhere but here.

She cried because truthfully, she was scared. She didn't know where she was, and she didn't know why she was being kept here. All she knew was the snatchers had recognised her, despite Draco's attempts to disguise her and plucked her up so quickly she didn't have any time to try and save herself.

She felt stupid. She felt stupid and scared and alone.

And Hermione was so scared that she almost didn't move for four days straight. Not even when she was met with, what she quickly recognised to be Peter Pettigrew, bringing her lacklustre, mouldy plates of food.

Hermione didn't understand why he kept her fed if they wanted to kill her. It quickly came clear when Pettigrew spat at her 'Eat, Mudblood, the Dark Lord will want to question you when he gets back from his trip, and he will want you to be alive.'

And then she cried because it hit her. Again. It crashed over her and made her insides split-she was still, and would always be Hermione Granger. She would always be Harry Potter's best friend. Potter's Mudblood, as Rita Skeeter liked to call her.

And while Voldemort was still alive and kicking, anyone would be desperate to get their hands on her.

At that moment, she wished she was Rose Waterlily.

When her tears began to dry, she took a deep breath but started crying again when Draco's face flashed across her mind.

What if they realised he was Draco Malfoy? His face was recognisable, despite his poor attempt to conceal it with black hair. Anyone would've been able to tell, from his sharp nose and blue eyes, and the mark burned into the skin on his forearm.

Hermione realised then and there-she would do anything to protect him.

Because the thought of him being hurt, tortured or worse made her run to the corner of the dungeon to throw up.

And it made her dizzy. It made her so dizzy. Because although she knew there was something inside of her that liked Draco Malfoy, she hadn't realised it was so palpable.