Just a Little

Just a Little

Part I

Hermione

I paced. It was just about all I could without ripping my fingernails out one by one clawing at the stone walls. We had thought ourselves invincible. That didn't last long. A half-dozen Death Eaters Apparating in front of us in Hogsmeade, a few curses thrown at us, and here we are.

I think we were thrown in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, but as we were unconscious when we were brought here, I don't know where here is.

For me, they've provided a cell. Stone walls on three sides, the fourth iron bars. The barred side opens to a larger room.

In the larger room to my left are empty shackles. Harry is kept in these at night. He was taken away a while ago; every once in a while, I can hear a masculine scream echo in the corridors. It unnerves me every time.

To my right is Ron. He, too, is in shackles; his wrists and ankles are abraded from tugging futilely at them. I'm sure his shoulders ache from having his hands forced behind him all day, but I haven't heard a word of complaint from him.

We're both worried about Harry. Every morning - at least it's probably morning since that's when we receive breakfast - Harry is taken away. He isn't returned to us until our dinner arrives.

Every day he looks worse. Thinner, as if that were possible. His cheekbones now stand out like knifes in his face. His scar has been throbbing an angry red since we arrived. I think Voldemort has been torturing him, but Harry says nothing.

When he is returned to us at the end of the day, his hands are manacled but his ankles are left free. It allows him to curl up in a fetal position all night. He has had no nightmares since we were brought here - I think he's living them all day long now.

I ache at not being able to comfort him in any of the ways Ron and I have learned. Not being able to hug him or kiss the pain away. But that's why it's called torture.

Ron

When I sit against the wall, I'm able to have my hands in front of me. But if I sit even a few feet away, my arms are pulled behind me. My wrists and ankles are raw, but it doesn't bother me. They - the Death Eaters - have said nothing to me, just give me a look from behind their masks that is all at once condescending and amused.

Since Harry and I were wrapped up in a mind-numbing kiss when we were abducted, I'm sure the condescension is because they think we're both gay. If only they knew, it would probably be worse for us, especially Hermione. I'm torn between ecstatic happiness that Hermione is here with us and utter despair for the same reason.

I can live with the shackles. The hooded bastards have done nothing to me beyond starving me. I can live with that. But they keep Hermione locked in a cell, leering at her as if all they wanted to do was rape her; and Harry...I try not to think about what they're doing to Harry. When he returns each evening from wherever they've been keeping him, he looks like he's been wrung through hell, and that description is being kind.

Normally I would say "ridden hard and put away wet" - a Muggle phrase Hermione taught me and we used on Harry one night after a Quidditch practice - but that would taint our memory of a very pleasant evening.

I can't help but wonder what their plans are for Hermione and I. We can't even begin to formulate a plan of action to get out of here until Harry is given time to recover. I worry that if his torture is kept up, it will kill him soon.

Harry

I've lost track of how many days have gone by since we were stupid enough to get caught. All because I wanted to grab dinner outside our apartment for once; so we Flooed over to the Three Broomsticks for a nostalgic turn.

We didn't even know the Death Eaters were attacking until it was too late. I shouldn't have let my guard down - but seeing Ron flustered after serious Hermione teasing was too much to resist. Hermione so rarely involved herself in our childish antics, that when she did, she usually got one over on us. And seeing Ron with his mouth hanging open...well, I had to close it somehow.

The smile on my lips makes me wince. I can't count the number of times I've been subjected to Cruciatus. Never for very long - Voldemort doesn't want me insane - but long enough to feel like every bone in my body gets broken in a split second. I used to be able to resist the curse since it's all in the mind like Imperius, but that ability is long past.

I'm not sure what he wants yet. Voldemort hasn't seen fit to tell me. I think he's waiting for me to break. He tried using a Dementor, but as I passed out after a few minutes, he hasn't used one since.

Sometimes all he does is hang me by my wrists from the ceiling. Other times, he chains me to the wall then leaves. On those days, I become the main exhibit in a Death Eater show-and-tell. "Look," they say, "see the Boy Who Lived. Not so great, after all, is he?" The laughter is what bothers me the most.

The cell I'm brought back to at night is the one I share with Ron and Hermione. I can't bear to look at them, knowing it's my fault we're here. So I curl into a ball and try to sleep, pretending my body doesn't scream in agony with every movement.

My only thought all night is that I wish I'd been taken alone. Knowing Ron and Hermione are likely going to die because of me - probably in front of me - is more than I can bear. If it had been only me, I could live with myself. If they weren't here with me, I'd have a reason to live.

© 2003 Trisha Masen 3