At Malfoy Manor

Hermione’s legs collapsed under her as they hit the wet sand along the shore near Shell Cottage. Ron was at her side, holding her, wrapping his arms around her to offer her comfort and to reassure himself that she was real, that she was safe, that she was alive. The gentle waves lapped up against her legs as she knelt, motionless, her mind reeling.

Ron stood and his hand on her arm was gentle as he tugged her to stand. “Are you alright, Hermione?” he asked, his voice gruff and thick.

Hermione looked up at him as she slowly got to her feet. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone what happened there. Not now. Not ever. She took a deep breath and said, “I`m alright, Ron. It’s over.” But the way she had to pull against his outstretched arm in order to stand belied her statement.

He looped his arm about her waist and they set off on the path toward Shell Cottage. Hermione looked over her shoulder toward Harry. He was bent over in the sand, clutching Dobby in his arms. “We should go back,” Hermione said. She started to head in Harry’s direction and was surprised to feel resistance as Ron didn’t budge.

“No,” he said. “Let’s get you to the cottage and make sure you’re alright.”

A small cluster of people were moving out to meet them through the darkness. A short distance away from Ron and Hermione, the group split. Fleur came toward the pair of them while Bill, Dean, and Luna headed toward Harry and Dobby. Without saying a word, Fleur slipped under Hermione’s arm on the side opposite Ron and helped support her back toward the cottage.

“No, I`m fine,” protested Hermione. “Really…”

“Come on, ‘ermione.” Fleur’s airy voice washed over her.

Though Hermione would never have admitted it, she was thankful for the supporting arms around her. Her legs were weak and sore and her whole body ached from Bellatrix’s ministrations. She felt a certain stickiness between her thighs and cringed. No, I can’t think about that. I can’t talk about that. I just have to get somewhere where I can get clean.

Ron noticed her subtle wince and misinterpreted it. “We’re almost there, Hermione,” he muttered softly. “Almost there.”

A gust of wind kicked up, blowing down the shoreline. Hermione felt the cool breeze snap by her, blowing through her clothing and piercing her skin. Ron, on the windward side, lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the sand.

A short distance away, where Harry, Dean, Bill, and Luna were gathered around Dobby, a single head shot up from among the crowd. He examined the small group moving toward the house and his eyes narrowed fiercely.

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Fleur shooed Ron away and helped Hermione lay down on a couch in the living room. She crossed to a cabinet in the small kitchen and pulled out a bottle of Dittany. Hermione’s arm was still bleeding as Fleur used the dropper to administer the healing essence. The blood flow stopped but the skin did not knit back together as it should have. The word did not vanish.

Fleur stared for a moment. When she spoke, anger throbbed in her voice. “Oo did zis?”

Hermione did not answer. She was afraid to say anything, afraid to trigger Bellatrix’s spell. She would have to find a way to reverse it, somehow, but for now she would keep silent.

“Bellatrix Lestrange,” Ron said from the doorway.

Fleur looked up at him, horror etched on her face. She had heard stories of the female Death Eater’s proclivity for pain.

He stepped closer and, for the first time, saw the word "Mudblood" engraved in Hermione’s flesh. “`Mione…” His voice cracked slightly and Hermione looked up to see moisture welling in his eyes. “I`m sorry, I`m so sorry… I tried to get back up to you, but…”

Hermione sat up, struggling against the thick, deep cushions of the couch that threatened to swallow her. She thought about what Harry and Ron would have seen if they had escaped from the cellar a few minutes earlier and shuddered. She tugged her sleeve down over her forearm, covering the horrid word that was etched into her skin. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing, really. I`ll find a way to get it off… later.” Fleur looked worried and Ron was trying to bottle his rage.

“’ermione, where else are you ‘urt?”

Hermione’s mouth was suddenly dry. She swallowed and ran her tongue along her upper lip. “Nowhere. It was mostly just…” her voice faded, but Ron finished her sentence for her.

“The Cruciatus Curse,” he supplied. “We could hear even from down in the cellar.”

Fleur sat back on her heels next to the couch where Hermione rested. Her hand drifted up to stroke Hermione’s hair back from her forehead. “I can give you a potion to help you relax, but the only real cure for pain from the torture curse ees rest. We ‘ave been helping send people to Bill’s Auntie Muriel’s – that will be the best place for you to rest and get better. Hopefully there you can find a way to ‘eal your arm, too.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest that of course they couldn’t run to Muriel’s and hide, but she stopped when the door to the cottage opened to reveal Bill, Luna, and Dean, all wearing the same somber expression.

“Dobby is dead,” Bill announced, looking at Ron and Hermione. “Bellatrix’s knife caught him mid-Apparition.”

Ron sat on the couch next to Hermione with a thud. His expression was blank as he processed Bill’s words. Hermione wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against his shoulder.

“Fleur, could you take Dean, Ron, and Luna upstairs and show them where they’ll be staying? I`ll keep an eye on Hermione for a second.”

Fleur nodded quietly and led the other three teenagers toward the stairwell. Hermione looked at Bill quizzically.

Bill went to the same cabinet from which Fleur had taken the Essence of Dittany earlier. He plucked a bottle off one of the lower shelves and carried it over to Hermione. He offered it to her without a word.

Hermione turned the small green bottle over in her hand. The label was written in a flowery, flowing hand, probably Fleur’s. Anti-Conception Potion, she read. Hermione looked up at Bill in shock.

“Do the others know?” he inquired quietly, his voice soft and gentle.

Hermione shook her head. “No… how did you know?” she asked.

Bill reached up to brush his fingertips across the scars that marred the left side of his face. “Greyback might not have turned me when he bit me in his human form, but there are some lasting effects. I caught his scent when you were on the beach. I can smell him on you.”

Hermione looked down, embarrassed as tears began to fill her eyes.

Bill knelt before her, his large, warm hand closed over hers around the delicate bottle. “Hermione, if you don’t want to say anything, I can promise you they won’t hear it from me. None of them.”

“Thank you.” Hermione’s voice was barely audible. She could hear footsteps as the boys thudded back down the stairs, having been informed that the living room was their bedroom for the time-being.

“Do you…” Bill cleared his throat cautiously, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation at hand. “Do you want a shower or anything? Harry is out digging a grave for Dobby, I`m sure there would be time before we bury him…”

Hermione sucked in a deep breath. “No, I want to go out and help dig the grave,” she said softly. “A cleansing spell would be nice, but they took my wand…”

“Er, right.” The footsteps on the stairs were closer now. Bill raised his wand and Hermione felt a wave of warmth and peace wash over her entire body, so totally unlike the cold Scourgify that Bellatrix had cast. Hermione uncorked the phial of potion and tossed it back, swallowing it in a single gulp. Bill vanished the bottle just as Ron and Dean rounded the corner; Fleur followed close behind them, tucking a bottle of Skele-Gro in her pocket.

“We’re going to go help Harry,” Ron said.

Hermione unsteadily got to her feet. “I`m coming too.”

“No, you are not,” Fleur’s voice interrupted imperiously. “You must rest, ‘ermione. The Cruciatus Curse is painful; you will be sore for a while. It ees better that you rest now.” She crossed quickly over to the couch and placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder, gently pushing her back down.

Ron shot an apologetic glance over his shoulder as he and Dean stepped out the door. Bill went upstairs to check on Olivander and Griphook while Fleur bustled around the kitchen, preparing a meal for everyone and periodically popping her head into the living room to make sure that Hermione was still resting.

Hermione’s head sank back into the pillow near the arm of the couch. A choking feeling was building within her and she held her breath, afraid that even breathing would cause her to start sobbing aloud. She couldn’t do that. If she started crying, someone would ask her about what had happened and she would have no answer to give them. Better just to let them assume that it was only the Cruciatus Curse, Hermione thought. I can’t tell anyone what really happened. I can’t deal with reliving it and I couldn’t bear it for someone else to have to share in those memories too.

She slowly pulled a breath of air in, filling her lungs and holding it for a second. Then she released it slowly, allowing the whisper of its movement to flow over her lips as her lungs deflated. There was something calming about that. She focused on breathing and allowed the slow pace to consume her, driving all other thoughts out of her head for a few blissful moments of freedom.

By the time Harry had finished digging the grave, Hermione felt numb. Fleur had given her a clean dressing gown and, as she picked her way up the dunes to the gravesite, she almost convinced herself that none of it had happened – that she was merely tired and sore from too much travel and in dire need of a hot bath. She watched as Harry lowered Dobby’s body into the grave, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. She didn’t think she could muster the energy to speak, even. When they had pushed the dirt back over the grave, Ron helped her back down the shifting sand of the dune toward the house.

Hermione felt a wave of relief rush over her as he led her into the cottage’s sitting room. She rested her head against his shoulder for a moment and breathed in the deep, masculine scent. She was safe here, she reminded herself. Ron was stiff and awkward, as though he didn’t know quite what to do, but he managed to loop an arm around her and embrace her closely. Hermione’s breath caught at the close contact and her heart started to pound, but she forced herself to remember who she was with and that there was no reason to be afraid.

As if in response to her thoughts, the aching between her legs seemed to increase. Hermione ignored it. No one can know, she thought. No one can ever know.

Bill walked back into the house and sniffed cautiously. He scowled slightly; no one would have noticed it if they were not looking for it. Hermione was. She saw him test the air and saw his eyes darken. She shivered in disgust, ashamed at what had happened and that Bill knew and horrified also that she had brought the reminder of the werewolf into Bill’s own house.

When Harry came back into the house, Hermione was glad to see the sense of purpose he brought with him. He seemed like every inch of the man that Dumbledore had prepared for this mission. He spoke only briefly with Hermione and Ron before the three of them went upstairs to talk to Griphook and Olivander.

Harry had realized what Hermione had while they were back at Malfoy manor, though he had given it more thought than she. Bellatrix was afraid – deathly afraid – that they had been in her Gringott’s vault. There was - there had to be - something in the vault that she was afraid they had found. Maybe, just maybe, that something was a Horcrux.

Their wands were gone, left at Malfoy Manor. Olivander identified the two wands that Harry had managed to snatch and bring out with them. He kept Malfoy’s, since he had rightfully won it by taking it from Draco. That left Hermione with Bellatrix’s walnut want.

It felt evil when it touched her hand. The feel of it chilled her to the core; this wand knew who she was. It remembered her. It thrummed against her palm, aching, begging to be used again to inflict pain and punishment. Olivander said that the wand learns from the wizard and the wizard for the wand. Evidently, this wand had adapted some of Bellatrix’s penchant for pain.

For the most part, over the coming weeks that they spent in Shell Cottage, Hermione avoided the walnut wand as much as possible, preferring instead to borrow Ron or Harry’s. She worked diligently on a new batch of Polyjuice potion.

It had been Harry’s idea to check the sweater that Hermione had been wearing at Malfoy Manor for Death Eater hair. When she found out the plan for her to take Bellatrix’s form for the trip to Gringotts, her stomach churned. The wand, on the other hand, seemed quite content with the idea. As the Polyjuice matured, the walnut wand seemed happy, performing Hermione’s bidding with a minimum of fuss.

A month had passed. The day was fast approaching when they would leave Shell Cottage. Hermione had terrible nightmares almost every night. She hated that waking her sleeping companion when she shuddered awake at all hours, but often she woke to find that Luna was already awake. The blond-haired Ravenclaw spent hours and hours staring out the window of the small room and would scarcely move when Hermione jolted awake in the bed behind her. Sometimes Luna would turn and give her a sad smile, but neither of them said anything.

During daylight hours, the two of them never spoke of the reason they could not sleep at night. Hermione knew that Luna had been trapped at Malfoy Manor for several months before she, Harry, and Ron had arrived. Hermione suspected that she could guess more or less what had taken place, although she surmised that Luna had the same reason to keep silent that she did. ‘Memorium Equaltae Combinaras’…

Hermione had easily grasped the meaning of the spell when she first heard it and Bellatrix’s explanation only reinforced what she had already guessed. It was a simple spell, really, though disastrous in its effects. Even though Bellatrix had said that she had invented it herself, Hermione still checked every book she could find in Shell Cottage, including Bill’s collection from his Cursebreaking days at Gringotts. There was no mention of the spell Bellatrix had used, nor any similar spells. This of course meant that there was no counter curse.

It was almost time. They were going over the final plans for the trip to Gringotts; the Polyjuice was simmering in the sitting room and the walnut wand was warm and pulsing as it rested in the back pocket of Hermione’s jeans.

“You’ll be using her actual wand,” said Harry, nodding toward the walnut wand as they sat together one night, “so I reckon you’ll be pretty convincing.”

Hermione looked frightened that the wand might sting or bite her as she picked it up. “I hate this thing,” she said in a low voice. “I really hate it.” The wand vibrated slightly and Hermione swore it would have trilled if it had a voice. “It feels all wrong, it doesn’t work properly for me…. It’s like a bit of her.” Like a constant reminder of everything I`d rather forget.

Harry didn’t understand. He had used the blackthorn wand, even though it wasn’t his. It didn’t work properly, but it worked. It didn’t feel right, like his own wand had always suited him, but it did the job. The walnut wand would do the same for Hermione if only she would just use it and stop borrowing his or Ron’s every chance she could. He chose not to repeat her own advice back to her, though, that she should simply practice. The eve of their attempted assault on Gringotts felt like the wrong moment to antagonize her.

Hermione stirred the Polyjuice potion one last time and ladled a portion into a small phial. The bitter liquid stung her nose and she conjured a cork to stopper the phial. As the wand breathed in the scent of the potion, it gave a small jump. For the briefest flash, Hermione was back in Malfoy Manor, looking at herself through Bellatrix’s eyes.

She saw the form of her own naked body cast on the floor, covered in blood. She saw her lips moving, forming soundless words. She felt Bellatrix’s pleasure and the warmth of power coursing through her veins. She felt the full lips form a single word and felt the power of the dark spell filling her. “Crucio!” Bellatrix shrieked.

Then, only a heartbeat later, Hermione was back in Shell Cottage. She was on the sitting room floor, holding the Polyjuice potion in her hand. Fleur and Luna were in the kitchen preparing supper, Harry was upstairs talking to Griphook and Ron and Dean were out in the garden helping Bill tend the plants. She felt for an instant like she was going mad. Hermione threw the walnut wand away from her and watched as it rolled across the uneven wooden floor.

Hermione stored the phial of potion for use the next day. She picked up the wand, carefully using a spare cloth to prevent her from touching it again. She carried it upstairs and left it wrapped up in the drawer of the bedside table.

That night, Hermione took Luna’s customary spot beside the window. The Ravenclaw lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling while Hermione gazed out over the ocean. Eventually Luna’s breath evened out and the steady rise and fall of her chest told Hermione that at least one of them had managed to fall into a smooth slumber.

Sleep did not come at all for Hermione that night.