Just a Little

Hermione

I rock from side to side, trying to keep the awful sensations at bay. I now understand why Harry is prone to pass out when he is near one of these...creatures...too long. I can't think. Or, more correctly, I can't think of anything but despair. All of our previous encounters with Dementors haven't lasted long because Harry or Ron casts a Patronus and the bloody thing disappears. But since none of us has our wands, that is not a possibility here.

Glancing up at Ron, I see that he's dropped to his knees, hands on either side of his head as if to squeeze the Dementor out.

Harry, on the other hand, has managed to stand, staring at Voldemort and his unearthly companion.

"So," Harry spits, "you have to bring reinforcements." He is slowing becoming paler, scar standing out more lividly in contrast. If I could think, if I were free, I'd stand behind him, holding him up. For the moment, though, he seems okay, if somewhat hoarse and shaky.

"Trying to be brave, I see," croons Voldemort. The tone makes my skin crawl. It's almost as if he's trying to seduce a lover with that tone.

Wait...no...he can't be. An awful thought occurs to me. What if the torture he's been subjecting Harry to is because he wants Harry at his side and Harry won't go? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I note that Ron has fallen onto the floor and is twitching slightly, like a dog dreaming. Somehow, I don't think that's good. Harry has now moved himself closer to the wall, bracing himself against it with one hand. It's a miracle he's stayed on his feet this long - must be his sheer stubbornness.

Voldemort's burning red eyes bore into Harry's green ones. They seem to be testing each other, playing chicken.

The Dementor takes another step into the room throwing the balance of that game off. Harry's resolve breaks and he is the one to drop to his knees this time, eyes closed, breath hissing from between his teeth.

I try to hold onto my thoughts, but I'm so cold I can't think. Every instance of failure I've experienced is rushing to the fore. Every fear I've had of failing school or failing these two men weighs me down. Why are we trying to fight? We're just going to lose.

Ron

Mired in the depths of despair.

That phrase never made sense until now. It seems like I'll never be happy again. Was I ever happy before? How in the hell do the prisoners of Azkaban stand this? I'm so cold I could be an ice lolly. Hmm...I wonder what flavor? Stop it!

I desperately try to stop the shaking of my limbs and search for one happy thought. Just one.

"I wouldn't exactly call it brave, Tom," Harry taunts, even though he's on his knees and it looks like the wall is the only thing keeping him from falling completely onto the ground. Hard to be defiant when you're laying flat on your back and looking like death.

"My name is Lord Voldemort, whelp," the Dark Lord corrects.

Somehow I remember our second year and the Chamber of Secrets, of how afraid I was Ginny would be dead by the time Harry found her. But she wasn't. Harry saved her. He killed a basilisk, killed an incarnation of Tom Riddle and saved my sister. A hero at the age of twelve.

Slowly, I feel the Dementor's hold loosen. I must have found a happy memory. My limbs have stopped shaking, but I can't seem to move off the stone floor.

Think, Weasley, think. Happy thoughts. Then what pops into my mind is the same one that was there earlier: Harry, post-Quidditch practice. My eyes fix on Harry, the sweat streaming down his face as he struggles to keep his sanity in the face of the Dementor and Voldemort. I close my eyes to savor the memory.

It was a hot day and Hermione and I were home, cuddling and watching the telly. Just before dinner, we heard Harry Apparate into the front hall. Hermione and I both leapt up, startled, and ran to the front hall. Harry was dripping wet with sweat. It had molded his uniform to his body, damp patches on his chest and armpits.

Before I could say anything, Hermione smiled that wicked smile she has, one corner of her mouth turned up, tongue just visible, and said in a low voice, "You should get out of those wet clothes, Harry." Harry swept his fringe off his forehead in an effort to stop the sweat from dripping into his eyes.

Seeing Hermione's smile, he began to grin. "Maybe you should help me." I stepped forward and began to unlatch his armguards. He turned that half-grin on me and I thought I would melt. He knows what that grin does to both Hermione and I and uses it to his full advantage.

By the time we had his uniform off, we were damp as well, both with our own sweat and arousal as well as Harry's. I don't remember making it out of the entry until a long while later, after a leisurely exploration - and use - of Harry's body by both of us. Not that he protested.

Blinking, I realize I'm not cold anymore. In fact, I'm quite uncomfortably warm. And suffering no effects of the Dementor. Sitting up, I look over at Hermione, who is nearly catatonic. She needs to know how to fight it.

"Hermione," I call harshly.

Voldemort turns to me. "Weasley, I think you should be quiet." At the edges of my awareness, I can feel the tentacles of his power teasing at mine. I draw my magic inside me, just in case that snake bastard has found a way to do something with it.

Harry

I should probably worry when the damp stone wall of a dungeon is warmer than I am. I lean heavily on the wall, trying to draw some meager warmth from it without appearing to be so weak, even thought I'm on my knees at Voldemort's feet.

"Leave him alone, Tom," I demand. While my throat feels raw, I can't think about that now and try to inject strength into my voice. I remember from the last confrontation Ginny had with Voldemort that he has a real weak spot when it comes to his name.

Voldemort's attention returns to me. He smiles. I had forgotten how awful it is to see him smile.

"I think I should leave you three alone together," he says slowly. "For old times' sake." That doesn't sound good.

Voldemort waves his hand across the room, encompassing all of us. The shackles holding Ron and I release and the door to Hermione's cage opens.

"I'll be back later." And with that last promise, Voldemort turns and leaves us, taking his pet Dementor with him.

Whatever had been holding me upright until now, leaves. I collapse against the floor of the dungeon, breathing heavily. I hear a metallic squeal and clang as Hermione opens the door to her cage; I hear metallic clangs as Ron disentangles himself from his shackles.

Ron lifts me up into a sitting position, my own shackles falling off, bracing me against his chest. Hermione kneels in front of me, brushing the hair out of my eyes. I can feel Ron trembling slightly as he holds me. When one of his hands brushes against my arm, it seems much damper than it should be. I pry my eyes open and look down. His wrist is raw, blood coating it like a bracelet.

"Ron," I whisper, horrified, grasping his arm gently. Somehow, the fact that I'm injured doesn't hurt me as much as seeing Ron, or Hermione, hurt. He shrugs. In male communication: this is something not to be discussed.

Hermione cradles my face between her palms. I shift my gaze to her. Up close, she looks ravaged. Still beautiful, but in a much more ethereal way, like an angel dragged through hell.

"Are you doing okay?" she asks, her voice breaking. Instead of answering, I pull her forward into an embrace. I feel Ron press his lips into my hair as I press mine into Hermione's.

"Everything aches," I rasp. "But now I'm doing better." My emotions are as raw as my nerves after the most recent Cruciatus cast upon me.

© 2003 Trisha Masen