The Silence
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
7,260
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
7,260
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the rights to Harry Potter and do not make money by using it here.
The Boy
Tonight was her night. She didn’t think about it as they led her through the dark camp towards the Death Eater’s hall. She looked up at the endless sky as the rain pelted her face. She wasn’t facing anything new and she embraced it, knowing that for at least one night, the others were safe in their beds. At least for one night she could take their pain and keep it where it belonged.
They rutted against her, thrusting into her dry, sore hole. They moaned and panted and spat vile words.
She just looked away.
_________________________________________
The next day she couldn’t stand. She was dragged through the mud by her hair, beaten, cursed, but still her battered legs wouldn’t hold. She was thrown in a cell to await punishment.
Apparently, they hadn’t enjoyed the sex as much as she.
_________________________________________
As the day turned to night outside she felt something other than the pain. A longing. That was it. He would be there, tonight, waiting for her. Would he stop coming while she was in here? The cold stone walls taunted her and the nearing footsteps had her closing her eyes against the brutality she knew she was to endure.
_________________________________________
They let her out days later, when her vagina and anus were healed enough to allow her to work. The lashes left blood on her back, her dress sticking to it. Her only thought, however, was of the night.
_________________________________________
She walked quickly, her footsteps in earnest. It did not rain this night, the sky clear. For once she wished for the rain, for the cover and safety it provided. But even if there were a spotlight on her she would not stop, would not slow down. Her heart pounded as she neared the fence, as his dark countenance came into view. She ran straight to his outstretched hand and grasped it tight.
“Oh, god, where have you been, what happened to you?” he said, his other hand coming out to stroke her bloody cheek. She just looked at him, looked at that face that begged her to remember. But she couldn’t remember what she was forgetting.
“Jesus, what have they done?” he breathed. “Were you caught coming here?”
She shook her head, no.
“Did they question you? About Harry? Ron?”
She fell backwards, ripping away from his hand. She hit the ground, her back splattering in the mud. Harry? Ron? Harry? Ron?
“Hermione, what wrong? What’s happened to you?” he begged, lowering himself so that he was eye level with her as she pushed herself up into a crab-like position. “Hermione, talk to me, what’s going on?”
Harry? Ron?
Hermione.
Her teeth chattered as she backed away, as she lifted herself against his protests.
She rocked herself on her bed, those three names bouncing around in her head. Harry? Ron? Hermione. Harry? Ron? Hermione.
________________________________________
She debated going to him as her hands cracked against the lye and hot water. She scrubbed, the women next to her talking in low tones. One girl came into their group late. She had tears in her eyes and she walked with a limp. It had been her night. A tall dark woman rushed forward to take the girl in her arms.
The sight shook her to her core.
________________________________________
She went to him tonight after seeing the two women clasping each other against the wind. He was there, like always and she went to him, holding his hand without words. When his hand came out to touch her face she jumped.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his deep voice reverberating against the wind.
“You have to tell me,” he begged. “You have to tell me what happened. We’ve been hoping for so long that you might have made it somehow, that you would help us and now here you are. Please, tell me, help me understand.”
She looked into those brown eyes. How had she never stared into them before? They were enchanting.
“Do-do you remember me?” he asked nervously. She nodded, yes.
“Can you talk? Have they taken away your speech?”
She closed her eyes. The first drops of rain hit her hand first where it was clasped against his. She looked down at the joining. Light and dark, small and large. Different, but alike. Her hands were still red and chapped from the scrubbing, his were calloused and scarred. She’d never looked at his hands before.
“Hermione, listen to me, NO!” His harsh command stopped her. “Don’t pull away from me! We need you, Hermione. I don’t know what’s happened to you but I’m sorry, please, believe me. We need your help; you’re our only hope now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded.
“Will you help us?”
She shook her head.
Then she left.
________________________________________
Dean smashed his fist against the bedpost when he returned to his barracks. He didn’t know what to do, how to get through to her. It was obvious that something had happened, something wasn’t right with her. He didn’t know how much she understood, whether she could even talk or not. She seemed to take in everything he said, but her lack of response was daunting. What had they done to her? He could only imagine. She was Harry’s best mate, besides Ron. They would tear her to shreds to get to him.
But was he even alive? Had Harry made it through? Would Hermione know?
Dean flopped onto his hard bed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the wooden plank of the bed above him. Spencer was asleep, finally. He usually just watched Dean come and go with dead eyes. He wasn’t worried the shaggy haired boy would tell. The kid was quiet, speaking only when spoken to and never to the Death Eaters. Dean rolled onto his side and looked at the other nine boys around him, all sleeping now in the dead of the night. There was Cor across from him, a reedy Irish fellow whose brogue made Dean yearn for his best mate, Seamus. Keller slept in a ball above Cor, the oldest in their barracks at twenty-two. He had a wife, a Half-blood who had made it through the seizure.
In the next bunk was Justin Finch-Fletchley, a welcome face in the heat of all this turmoil. He maintained his calm and kind demeanor even though Dean could see the camp getting to him. Dean tried hard to not let him get down; they all needed his matter-of-fact support. Above him lay Linus, a Russian bard who sang every night before they went to bed. His soothing voice made it easier for them to rest after what they’d seen throughout the day.
At the end of the room against the back wall was Mark, a built man with a low voice who was always sent to the heavy work due to his muscular physique. He didn’t mind because, as he’d once told Dean, it kept his mind from seeping into that darkness that taunted them all. Railey was situated above Mark. He could always be counted on to switch the topic to Quidditch when their thoughts grew too dark and to warn the others when the Dementers were on their way because he had some keen sense of them.
Sticks lay behind Dean’s head and was named thus because that’s what he looked like. Dean was in the habit of saving him a bit of bread to keep the boy’s energy up. Terrence lay above Sticks and they had to fight to keep him under control at times. He was prone to lashing out and Mark had told Dean the boy had seen his little sister get carted off and had snapped. He’d been like this ever since.
The dull barracks looked normal from a Death Eater’s eye. Two bunks on either wall, one on the back. No windows, one door, no adornments. But when the Death Eaters left, the ten boys rallied together, kept each other sane by their own ways, whether it was singing, storytelling, or just talking into the night. They made sure to stray away from happy thoughts the Dementors could steal and from bad ones which could slowly drive them mad. They had tried to work out escape plans but they never fell into formation. They had spoken of Harry, wondering whether the Chosen One had fallen and whether his Muggle-born friend, Hermione Granger, had been captured as well. Dean had wondered what had become of his Gryffindor friends and they’d all hoped Hermione had made it through and was just beyond that fence, waiting to save them all because Dean had told them all about her; all about her smarts and her wit and cunning. Justin had chimed in as well and they rode on that spark of hope that, if she were alive, she’d come up with a plan. She’d be able to tell them if Harry was safe, working on taking down You-Know-Who. Now that Dean had found her, he would do anything to get through to her, to make her understand that they needed her.
He closed his eyes to the image of her running up to him the night before, her dress torn, bloody by her crotch, her face a mask of welts, cuts, bruises. Her eyes were dull but wide, letting him know that something was getting through to her. He could only imagine the horrors she and the other women went through day after day. They were probably rape, molested, their small bodies beaten to within and inch of their lives. Hermione was skinnier than he’d ever seen her and probably weighed no more than eighty or ninety pounds. It scared him to see her like this, to see the woman who had led them into the D.A, whose hand was always first in the air when a teacher asked a question, who always had the answer and had gathered them all to join the Order after their sixth year and helped lead the meetings and the raids and the search parties. She was always on top of everything, never giving up hope, never letting anyone down, never stopping. To see her as this…this shell chilled him to the bone more than the screaming wind ever could. What had they done to her? Had they cast some spell to prevent her from speaking? Had they tortured her to the point of muteness? Or worse.
Had they finally broken the unbreakable Hermione Granger?
Dean refused to believe it. But as he rolled onto his side and hugged his raggedy blanket to his permanently frozen body, he knew Hermione Granger would never be the same.
_______________________________________
A/N: We finally know who our mystery boy is. Did you guess it?
More chapters to come soon! Let me know what you think.
XOXO
RynStar15
yourcookiedoughbaby@yahoo.com
They rutted against her, thrusting into her dry, sore hole. They moaned and panted and spat vile words.
She just looked away.
_________________________________________
The next day she couldn’t stand. She was dragged through the mud by her hair, beaten, cursed, but still her battered legs wouldn’t hold. She was thrown in a cell to await punishment.
Apparently, they hadn’t enjoyed the sex as much as she.
_________________________________________
As the day turned to night outside she felt something other than the pain. A longing. That was it. He would be there, tonight, waiting for her. Would he stop coming while she was in here? The cold stone walls taunted her and the nearing footsteps had her closing her eyes against the brutality she knew she was to endure.
_________________________________________
They let her out days later, when her vagina and anus were healed enough to allow her to work. The lashes left blood on her back, her dress sticking to it. Her only thought, however, was of the night.
_________________________________________
She walked quickly, her footsteps in earnest. It did not rain this night, the sky clear. For once she wished for the rain, for the cover and safety it provided. But even if there were a spotlight on her she would not stop, would not slow down. Her heart pounded as she neared the fence, as his dark countenance came into view. She ran straight to his outstretched hand and grasped it tight.
“Oh, god, where have you been, what happened to you?” he said, his other hand coming out to stroke her bloody cheek. She just looked at him, looked at that face that begged her to remember. But she couldn’t remember what she was forgetting.
“Jesus, what have they done?” he breathed. “Were you caught coming here?”
She shook her head, no.
“Did they question you? About Harry? Ron?”
She fell backwards, ripping away from his hand. She hit the ground, her back splattering in the mud. Harry? Ron? Harry? Ron?
“Hermione, what wrong? What’s happened to you?” he begged, lowering himself so that he was eye level with her as she pushed herself up into a crab-like position. “Hermione, talk to me, what’s going on?”
Harry? Ron?
Hermione.
Her teeth chattered as she backed away, as she lifted herself against his protests.
She rocked herself on her bed, those three names bouncing around in her head. Harry? Ron? Hermione. Harry? Ron? Hermione.
________________________________________
She debated going to him as her hands cracked against the lye and hot water. She scrubbed, the women next to her talking in low tones. One girl came into their group late. She had tears in her eyes and she walked with a limp. It had been her night. A tall dark woman rushed forward to take the girl in her arms.
The sight shook her to her core.
________________________________________
She went to him tonight after seeing the two women clasping each other against the wind. He was there, like always and she went to him, holding his hand without words. When his hand came out to touch her face she jumped.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his deep voice reverberating against the wind.
“You have to tell me,” he begged. “You have to tell me what happened. We’ve been hoping for so long that you might have made it somehow, that you would help us and now here you are. Please, tell me, help me understand.”
She looked into those brown eyes. How had she never stared into them before? They were enchanting.
“Do-do you remember me?” he asked nervously. She nodded, yes.
“Can you talk? Have they taken away your speech?”
She closed her eyes. The first drops of rain hit her hand first where it was clasped against his. She looked down at the joining. Light and dark, small and large. Different, but alike. Her hands were still red and chapped from the scrubbing, his were calloused and scarred. She’d never looked at his hands before.
“Hermione, listen to me, NO!” His harsh command stopped her. “Don’t pull away from me! We need you, Hermione. I don’t know what’s happened to you but I’m sorry, please, believe me. We need your help; you’re our only hope now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded.
“Will you help us?”
She shook her head.
Then she left.
________________________________________
Dean smashed his fist against the bedpost when he returned to his barracks. He didn’t know what to do, how to get through to her. It was obvious that something had happened, something wasn’t right with her. He didn’t know how much she understood, whether she could even talk or not. She seemed to take in everything he said, but her lack of response was daunting. What had they done to her? He could only imagine. She was Harry’s best mate, besides Ron. They would tear her to shreds to get to him.
But was he even alive? Had Harry made it through? Would Hermione know?
Dean flopped onto his hard bed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the wooden plank of the bed above him. Spencer was asleep, finally. He usually just watched Dean come and go with dead eyes. He wasn’t worried the shaggy haired boy would tell. The kid was quiet, speaking only when spoken to and never to the Death Eaters. Dean rolled onto his side and looked at the other nine boys around him, all sleeping now in the dead of the night. There was Cor across from him, a reedy Irish fellow whose brogue made Dean yearn for his best mate, Seamus. Keller slept in a ball above Cor, the oldest in their barracks at twenty-two. He had a wife, a Half-blood who had made it through the seizure.
In the next bunk was Justin Finch-Fletchley, a welcome face in the heat of all this turmoil. He maintained his calm and kind demeanor even though Dean could see the camp getting to him. Dean tried hard to not let him get down; they all needed his matter-of-fact support. Above him lay Linus, a Russian bard who sang every night before they went to bed. His soothing voice made it easier for them to rest after what they’d seen throughout the day.
At the end of the room against the back wall was Mark, a built man with a low voice who was always sent to the heavy work due to his muscular physique. He didn’t mind because, as he’d once told Dean, it kept his mind from seeping into that darkness that taunted them all. Railey was situated above Mark. He could always be counted on to switch the topic to Quidditch when their thoughts grew too dark and to warn the others when the Dementers were on their way because he had some keen sense of them.
Sticks lay behind Dean’s head and was named thus because that’s what he looked like. Dean was in the habit of saving him a bit of bread to keep the boy’s energy up. Terrence lay above Sticks and they had to fight to keep him under control at times. He was prone to lashing out and Mark had told Dean the boy had seen his little sister get carted off and had snapped. He’d been like this ever since.
The dull barracks looked normal from a Death Eater’s eye. Two bunks on either wall, one on the back. No windows, one door, no adornments. But when the Death Eaters left, the ten boys rallied together, kept each other sane by their own ways, whether it was singing, storytelling, or just talking into the night. They made sure to stray away from happy thoughts the Dementors could steal and from bad ones which could slowly drive them mad. They had tried to work out escape plans but they never fell into formation. They had spoken of Harry, wondering whether the Chosen One had fallen and whether his Muggle-born friend, Hermione Granger, had been captured as well. Dean had wondered what had become of his Gryffindor friends and they’d all hoped Hermione had made it through and was just beyond that fence, waiting to save them all because Dean had told them all about her; all about her smarts and her wit and cunning. Justin had chimed in as well and they rode on that spark of hope that, if she were alive, she’d come up with a plan. She’d be able to tell them if Harry was safe, working on taking down You-Know-Who. Now that Dean had found her, he would do anything to get through to her, to make her understand that they needed her.
He closed his eyes to the image of her running up to him the night before, her dress torn, bloody by her crotch, her face a mask of welts, cuts, bruises. Her eyes were dull but wide, letting him know that something was getting through to her. He could only imagine the horrors she and the other women went through day after day. They were probably rape, molested, their small bodies beaten to within and inch of their lives. Hermione was skinnier than he’d ever seen her and probably weighed no more than eighty or ninety pounds. It scared him to see her like this, to see the woman who had led them into the D.A, whose hand was always first in the air when a teacher asked a question, who always had the answer and had gathered them all to join the Order after their sixth year and helped lead the meetings and the raids and the search parties. She was always on top of everything, never giving up hope, never letting anyone down, never stopping. To see her as this…this shell chilled him to the bone more than the screaming wind ever could. What had they done to her? Had they cast some spell to prevent her from speaking? Had they tortured her to the point of muteness? Or worse.
Had they finally broken the unbreakable Hermione Granger?
Dean refused to believe it. But as he rolled onto his side and hugged his raggedy blanket to his permanently frozen body, he knew Hermione Granger would never be the same.
_______________________________________
A/N: We finally know who our mystery boy is. Did you guess it?
More chapters to come soon! Let me know what you think.
XOXO
RynStar15
yourcookiedoughbaby@yahoo.com