Fourteen Thousand Galleons

Unforgivable Curses

Coming back to consciousness is slow and painful. The first thing she's aware of is the darkness that surrounds her whether her eyes are open or not. Next, it's the splitting headache that seems as if her skull is being cleaved in two. Then, she's painfully aware of quaking nerves throughout her body. The stench of mildew. The slow drip of water and its gentle splash to the ground. Her feet are bare against a cold surface – cement, probably – and her wrists are bound behind her back with something magical that stings every time she tries to pull her hands apart.

With her chin to her chest, Hermione takes deep breaths through her mouth. There's a faint taste of rust on her lips and the tang of still-wet blood where her lip splits in two. Her shoulders ache where they're pulled back behind the metal chair she's stuck in. The Valknut over her heart throbs painfully as if being stabbed.

If there's anyone in the room with her, they are utterly quiet. No breathing, no shuffling feet, no movement at all.

She's alone, bleeding, restrained, and terrified.

As her eyes adjust to the darkness, the room around her becomes clearer. She still can't see far ahead of her, but as her pounding head lifts from her chest, Hermione can make out a four by four room and what appears to be a set of stairs leading to another floor. She's in a cellar, she's sure of it. But where?

Hermione sniffs at the air and gags on the overpowering, moldy stench. It's stale and musty with a faint hint of sweat and dirt. It's an unused room or a room that's so aged that it's been forgotten for a very long time. There are metal shelves across from her and blurry trinkets of various sizes set atop them. Nothing denoting magic that she can tell, but then if this place is abandoned, it's possible that all of the magic has been drained from this place.

The last thing she remembers – now that's even harder to recollect.

Draco, freshly showered, stole a kiss from her before leaving for work. Hermione followed suit, cleaned up from a night with her partners, the excitement of a new sort of relationship still thrumming through her, and prepared to collect the children from Andromeda's home.

She hadn't made it into the floo.

A shock of red hair stepped out as she made to step in. His eyes were blank. His wand wrapped tightly in his hand. She was stunned so quickly that she couldn't even grab her wand. When she came to, she was here. Covered in blood and dirt. She assumes she's been dragged, perhaps even apparated and dropped to the ground. Her body aches, muscles sore, joints stiff.

"You're awake."

That voice. His voice.

No longer loving. No longer gentle.

Hermione shakes when she hears it. Her mouth goes dry and her tongue sticks to its roof as she tries to say something – anything – to him. Why? How? Haven't you done enough?

"I was afraid you weren't going to wake up."

She blinks, trying to make out the finer details of his tall, broad frame. He's wearing a black cloak from the hollow of his throat to the tips of his boots. He's covered in dirt and blood, streaks of it on every uncovered piece of freckled flesh that she can see. It's like he's rolled around in it, caked himself in it as if it were camouflage.

"I'm so happy that you're awake."

"Why?" She finally croaks a word and coughs against the raw scratching in her throat.

"You hurt me," he whispers monotonously and approaches her with slow, steady steps. His body towers over hers and she has to crane her sore neck to make eye contact.