Small Fires: A Bedtime Story for SoftObsidian74

9.

~ into the green ~



When they turn him around and begin to whip him, Ron's first thought is, “This isn't going to be so bad.”



He revises his opinion half an hour later, when his blood trickles down to the floor in rivulets, and Pettigrew seems to have no intention of stopping. Ron grunts with every blow. It doesn't help that Hermione screams with every lash of the whip as if it's she who is being flayed alive. She's begging. She's begging, begging them to leave him alone, and take her instead.



“Your turn will come, my dear,” Bellatrix purrs.



~ * ~



Next to her, Harry screams. Hermione cranes her neck, stares, and a horrifying image is burned into her mind – Lucius, with a bloodied knife, peeling off a narrow strip of skin from Harry's back.



She barely notices it when Bella's wand slices off her clothes. She makes no sound when the wand travels down her body, tapping her nipples, tracing her abdomen, pointing at her sex. Her eyes are fixed on Harry, whose entire body is shaking, who looks like he's about to pass out any moment now...



“So pretty,” Bella hisses at her. “Such pretty eyes you have, my girl.”



The wand begins to travel up, and rests against her face, then presses to her forehead. Bellatrix whispers a spell.



Something changes then. Her world goes black.



And then, someone else screams. It's a pathetic, horrible, keening, pitiful noise. Someone should put that screaming creature out of its misery, Hermione thinks, just before she realizes that it's her screaming, while her eyes are burning and disintegrating under Bella's spell.



~ * ~



Ron stares blankly when Pettigrew goes through the pockets of Harry's shredded trousers that are lying in a heap on the floor. Harry looks like he's fainted, Ron notices. Lucky sod.



Pettigrew finds what he's been looking for. Harry's knife.



The blade of the knife presses against Ron's fingers.



“Going to pull you apart, piece by piece,” Pettigrew whispers.



Ron spits into his face.



~ * ~



She doesn't know how much time has passed. Someone always screams. Sometimes it's her. Sometimes, Ron, sometimes, Harry. She has no idea what's being done to the two of them. For that matter, she doesn't really know what's being done to her, either. She can only feel, and react, and scream.



Eventually, the pain stops growing, and she's dragged somewhere. She is still half-sobbing, half-howling with every step. She's tossed onto the floor. There's a sound of a door slamming shut.



She hears someone stir on the floor.



“Harry?” she mumbles. “Ron?”



“Here,” Harry whispers, and coughs.



“Me too,” Ron adds.



She tries to lift herself off the floor, and crawl towards the sound of their voices, but she can't.



“Don't,” Harry says. She hears a sound of movement as the two of them approach her.



“'Mione,” Harry mutters, and his hand rests on her forehead.



She lifts her hands weakly and reaches for them. She grasps Harry's elbow and holds on it it like a lifeline. Her left hand seeks out Ron's, but when she touches it, Ron issues a loud yelp, and she realizes that his hand is slippery, wet, sticky, deformed.



“Ron,” she murmurs.



There's an unnatural silence hanging in the air. Harry's breathing is labored. Ron doesn't say anything, but his other hand reaches for her face and strokes her cheek, careful to avoid touching the cuts and bruises that litter her face.



“I'm sorry 'bout the fires,” she mumbles again.



“I thought we've been through this,” Ron says wearily.



“I know. I'm still sorry.”



“Don't be. We needed the fires. If not for them, we would have frozen to death...”



She thinks privately that freezing to death would have been a great deal more pleasant, but Harry and Ron are stroking her hair soothingly, and she doesn't say anything else.



~ * ~



There are voices outside their cell. Hermione shudders, and grips Harry's hand tightly.



Voldemort's voice. “It ends tomorrow, at sunrise. All three of them.”



“My Lord,” Draco says obsequiously, “I have a suggestion, if I may.”



“Go on, my servant.”



“Only Potter needs to die for your victory to be assured, in accordance with the Prophecy,” Draco says. “The mudblood and the blood-traitor could go back to their own kind.”



“Such sentimentality.” Voldemort's voice is deceptively soft. “Unexpected. Disappointing.”



Draco laughs shrilly. “Have you seen them, my Lord? They are mutilated. Crippled. The mudblood is blind. Weasley is missing bits and pieces. Let them go, and for as long as they survive, they'll be a living reminder as to what happens to those who rise against you.”



“They know too much.”



“I'll Obliviate them before they leave. They won't remember what they had found out, that Nagini is your soul-bearer, my Lord.”



Voldemort appears to be considering Draco's statement.



“If they walk out of the cell of their own free will, they may leave,” he says finally.



~ * ~



The door opens and Harry lifts himself on his elbows, staring up at Draco's silhouette in the doorway.



“Thank you,” Harry whispers to him. His hand releases Hermione's.



“Weasley, Granger,” Draco says. “Get up. Let's go. I'll Oblivate you and bring a carriage to take you to the edge of the Forest. After that, you're on your own.”



Next to him, Ron laughs. Hermione chuckles as well. A chill runs down Harry's spine.



“Hermione, Ron!” He hisses at them. “Get the fuck up and go!”



“No,” Hermione says, and her hand seeks out Harry's. Harry pushes her away.



“We aren't going without you,” Ron says.



“This isn't a fucking game!” Harry is shouting now. “Get out of here!”



“We won't leave you,” Hermione murmurs, and crawls to Harry, resting her face on his knees.



“Please,” Harry begs them. “Please go back. For me. Please.”



“We can't,” Ron says quietly. “No more than you could have let Hermione fall from the bridge, no more than Hermione could have left me on the mountain when I broke my ankle...”



“This is different!” Harry protests.



“Not really,” Ron says.



Draco turns around and leaves. The door slams shut.



“Malfoy!” Harry screams on top of his lungs. “Malfoy! Come back!”



Hermione's lifts her arm and her hand reaches for the back of Harry's head.



“Shhh, Harry,” she whispers. “It's okay.”



“It's not,” he protests. “If Malfoy comes back, please go with him. Please? I really want you to go.”



They don't answer him, just hold on to him. He doesn't know how to convince them, how to tell them to go, and be alive, and be safe, how to explain to them that for as long as they're safe, a part of him will also be safe.



They continue to argue. Or rather, Harry continues to argue with them, and they just hold on to him, and soothe him, and tell him it's all right.



He keeps thinking that if he just finds the right words, they'll finally get up and leave. But the right words are never found, because Ron and Hermione are still here. Ron's hand rests on his neck, and Hermione's fingers stroke his hair, sorting through the bloodied mess of it with agonizing tenderness. He knows that he should argue some more, he should make them leave, but his thoughts are too disorganized, his mind is blurred, and eventually he begins to drift.



~ * ~



Draco returns one more time. His wand points out. Thankfully, Harry's still asleep. Ron issues a sigh of relief.



“Weasley, Granger,” Draco says. “Last chance. Come on. Don't be stupid.”



“No,” Ron says.



Draco stares at him intently. “Let me explain what will happen to you, if you stay. You'll die. Your bodies will be fed to Nagini. No fireworks. No medals. No glory. No grave.”



“We aren't splitting up now,” Hermione murmurs, sounding delirious. “We're almost there anyway.”



“You can't save him,” Draco says.



“Sure we can,” Ron says. “We're always saving each other.”



~ * ~



In the morning, Draco brings them water. Harry isn't entirely sure why Draco bothers with that, but they drink together, passing the small bottle to each other. They don't talk anymore. It's not that there's nothing left to say. On the contrary, Harry thinks, there's so much left unsaid, so much... that they don't know where to begin.



~ * ~



They are naked and shackled when they are led out into the courtyard. Hermione feels Ron's arm supporting her, Harry's hand guiding her. The chains and limbs are tangled together. It's raining, of course. Her feet are sinking into the muddy, damp, cold soil.



“How are you doing?” Harry asks her.



“Fine,” she says. “Just cold.”



Harry grips her elbow. “It's ok,” he says. “We'll make fire soon.”



To her shock and horror, she's crying again, feeling tears, mixed with blood leave her unseeing eyes.



“Promise?” she whispers.



“Mmhm,” Harry says. “A small one, though.”



“Barely noticeable,” Ron confirms, his hand squeezing hers.



~ * ~



Ron stares at his friends. He wants to say something to them, something meaningful, something … that will stay with them forever. But his mind is blank, and no words come.



Draco comes up to them, and grabs Hermione's hair, trying to push her down to her knees. She struggles against his grip.



“Leave it alone, Malfoy,” Ron says tiredly. “Just end this.”



Something softens in Draco's eyes, and he gives Ron a quick, barely noticeable nod. Hermione doesn't see it, but she senses something as well.



“Draco,” Hermione whispers softly. Her eyes are shut when her head turns in his direction. “Is it true? Was it the fires that allowed you to find us?”



Ron watches Draco intently, as a long, strained silence falls between them.



“No,” Draco says finally. “It wasn't the fires, Granger. It was the Dark Lord's wards. They are more complex, more sophisticated than you could even begin to imagine. We knew the moment you entered the Forest. We knew your every move, your every step. You never stood a chance. We just let you think that you did.”



“Why?” Ron asks, probably very predictably.



Draco shrugs. “Some people like playing with their food.”



His head is bowed when he walks away from them.



Voldemort walks towards them with his wand drawn.



So pointless, Ron thinks. They never stood a chance.



The mission was hopeless from the get-go, and therefore, never mattered. The only thing that mattered was them, Ron thinks. The little ways they held on to each other and kept going. The tiny, barely noticeable things they did to keep themselves sane. The small fires that Hermione made them light.



Ron's arms encircle Hermione, and she rests her face on his shoulder. Harry looks at them, like he can't get enough of the sight. Ron holds his gaze. If Ron were a better soldier, he'd probably be thinking about the mission, and the war... But all he can think of is how fragile Hermione feels in his arms, and how brilliantly green Harry's eyes are. Harry moves, and opens his mouth, as if he's about to say something, or maybe he's about to embrace them both... but green light envelops them all, and Ron finds himself falling.



Falling into Hermione.



Falling into Harry's eyes.



Falling into the green.



To Be Concluded...