Tonight my sleep will be restless

Tonight my sleep will be restless

"I'm worried about her, Ron," I whisper.

"And I'm not?" Ron demand, voice rising.

I turn to glare at him. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

We both turn back to watch her. Since rescuing her from the dank cell she'd been in, she's said very little. It's been a month and she's rarely left our flat, bathed even less frequently and said less yet. It's all completely out of character for our Hermione and the longer it goes on, the more it bothers us.

We knew Viktor had done a number on her even before we found out about the Death Eaters. The odd bruise and limited contact gave that away. He couldn't keep her from us entirely, though -- my being the Harry Potter guaranteed that, much to Viktor's dismay.

Ron and I talked about it often, tried to figure out how this happened. Neither of us have a fucking clue. I think it bothers Ron more than me -- his job is strategy, to see patterns where none do. What happened to Hermione doesn't fit the pattern.

"Has she eaten today?" I ask softly, feeling nauseated as Hermione begins to rock slowly as if in a rocking chair rather than on the floor.

"No." Ron moves behind me, wrapping his arms around me and resting his chin on the top of my head. "Harry, if this keeps up, we're going to have to take her to St. Mungo's."

"I know," I whisper in response. Neither of us want to resort to that, yet if we aren't able to help her soon, we know she'll drift away.

"She's not supposed to be like this," Ron growls. A heavy sigh escapes me before I can stop it.

Hermione begins to hum. The sound is at once ethereal and damning. Both of us tense.

"It's that song again," Ron hisses.

I shove backwards against him until we're both in the hallway, the door firmly shut between us and the wraith who looks like our best friend. Once in the hall, Ron slumps down the wall, bracing his head in his hands.

Kneeling beside him, I rest a hand on his head. "There is something I've thought of," I begin. When Ron looks up, I continue, "A Pensieve."

"How would that help?"

"She'd be able to take the memories out and look at them rather than be trapped by them."

His eyes narrow. "And what makes you think that will help?"

"I don't...dammit, Ron, we can't continue like this."

A tense silence falls between us. Our relationship has been strained the last month with Hermione here. Not because she's not supportive of us -- she's encouraged us to marry, after all -- but because of what she's been through. Despite the fact she seems trapped in her mind, we're uncomfortable with even the smallest displays of affection in her presence. It's made us both pent up on top of everything else.

Ron closes his eyes and leans his head back until it hits the wall with a soft thump. "Tomorrow, we'll do it tomorrow."

Neither of us sleep, I think. Many of the times I wake during the night, Ron is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling and smoking. Neither of us smoked until Hermione went missing, then Charlie gave us a fistful of fags and said it would help to calm our nerves. I still haven't figured out if his claim is true, but it keeps us distracted.

We're both awake at dawn and share a cold shower. Cold not to cool our ardor but to wake us up. Not that we don't kiss, but it goes no further, unlike a typical morning. After we dress, we split up: I grab the Pensieve and Ron wakes Hermione. Since her rescue, waking her is a dicey proposition usually involving shield spells.

I take a seat in the hall outside her room and wait until Ron returns with breakfast. Hermione never eats much but it's our responsibility to make sure she's physically well-kept if we can't do anything for her mind.

You can't think that way, I chastise myself. Seeing the positive in the situation has become more difficult as hours stretched into days then weeks. Her captivity did something to her mind, that wonderful mind that Ron and I cursed even as we envied it. If Viktor weren't already dead by my hand, I'd kill him.

Ron ascends the stairs with the breakfast tray. An uneasy look passes between us before we enter her room.

She's at her dressing table brushing her hair. While normally not distressing, the fact she's failed to dress is disconcerting. Her healing ribs still show the yellow of fading bruises despite the four weeks that have passed. The lacerations on her back and thighs still show an angry red around the edges.

"Damn him," Ron growls under his breath. The sound draws Hermione's attention to us.

"Hello, boys," she says softly, even her voice a shadow of what it was.

Ron clears his throat, but it's up to me to broach the subject.

"Hermione, we…we have something we'd like...like you to do." Given my stammering, one would think I'd never talked to her before or was a green teenager asking her out.

A vacant smile flutters across her face.

Furiously tamping down the anger that surges upward, I lift the Pensieve. Her eyes widen slightly, but that's her only reaction. I carry it across the room and set it on her dressing table. Ron finally moves, crossing the room to Hermione's other side. We both kneel beside her.

I want to avert my eyes from her, not view the evidence of what happened, but that would be cowardly. Glancing once at Ron, he nods in a decisive gesture. Taking a deep breath, I turn back to Hermione.

"We would like you to put your experience into the Pensieve."

Her eyes widen slightly before that ghostly smile becomes more real. "I didn't think you were into het."

I stare at her for a long moment before I realize she's made a joke. Ron laughs before I do, but we both know the easy rapport is not the same as when we were children.

Hermione's smile turns ethereal again and she sighs. Her wand lays on the dressing table. She reaches for it, unaware of her grimace as her wounds tug and pull. With an odd sigh, she lifts it to her temple and murmurs the incantation.

Thick, luminous blue strands cling to her wand. As she dumps them into the Pensieve, she begins humming again.

Ten minutes later she's put her memories into the stone basin, we've left breakfast for her and we're in the kitchen.

Ron traces a finger around the edge of the basin. "Are we ready for this?"

"It's the only way to help her," I reply, feeling sick.

Ron meets my eyes and a book of unsaid words lies open between us. Though we both had an inkling of what Viktor had been doing, his disappearance with Hermione just over a month ago was like a knife wound to the gut for both of us. Ron, after more than thirty-six hours without sleep while we searched for her, made an offhand comment about needing a Time Turner to speed our search. It was only after we found the condition she was in and Viktor's body cooling in the corridor that Ron's words seemed prescient.

I trace the edge of the basin, mirroring Ron's motions. Our fingers meet and we entwine our hands. I nod three times in a silent count before we lean forward.

We land with a silent thump in a stone corridor. At first glance, I would think it's a dungeon but there are windows and the light streaming through seems too natural to be a spell.

Before either of us can investigate, one of the two large doors open at the end of the corridor. Viktor enters, dragging Hermione.

Ron and I exchange a look. After month of the ghost we've been living with, it's odd to see Hermione with spirit.

"Damn you!" she cries, tugging him backwards. He's stronger, though, and pulls her inexorably forward.

They move through us and we follow, still clutching each other's hands.

Hermione's cursing and struggles echo off the unforgiving stone. They abruptly cease when Viktor pulls her into a chamber halfway down the corridor.

Ron and I follow. We pass through the door and I expect to be driven to my knees by Voldemort's presence, momentarily forgetting that this isn't current. Real, but not current.

Most of Voldemort's words wash over me -- he has a penchant for monologuing that is tiresome -- and I watch Lucius Malfoy, who is standing beside him. The expression on Lucius's face is entirely too carnal as he eyes Hermione.

That is, I ignore Voldemort until I hear my name. Lucius is smiling lasciviously at Hermione, who is struggling in Viktor's grasp. Voldemort signals subtly and two Death Eater flunkies move forward to grasp Hermione's arms.

Now free of his captive, Viktor takes two steps forward and kneels before Voldemort. He slides his sleeves up to reveal the Dark Mark on his left forearm.

"I live to serve," he murmurs in his accented English.

Ron's hand tightens painfully in mine, but neither of us say anything. When Ron growls, I look up at him, then follow his gaze. The Death Eater flunkies are visibly feeling Hermione up. Though she's putting up a good struggle, it's a lost cause.

I don't want to see this, but we have to; we have to know what happened since Hermione can't tell us.

"Rise," Voldemort hisses. Viktor rises slowly, keeping his head bowed. "What have you brought?"

"Harry Potter's child," Viktor answers.

I stiffen even as Ron cries, "What the fuck?"

Voldemort laughs mirthlessly. "I see only a Mudblood."

Tears stream down Hermione's face unchecked. Seeing this, I realize I don't think I've really ever seen her cry. It's just as disconcerting as her nakedness was this morning.

"Harry," Ron whispers urgently, drawing my attention back to Voldemort just as he raises his wand.

A spell I don't hear him cast shoots a bluish-red light at Hermione. She screams, twisting within the arms of her captors. If I didn't know what Cruciatus looked like when cast, I would say that's what Voldemort cast.

He lifts his wand, releasing the spell. His smile this time is amused and infinitely more dangerous.

"How did she come to be impregnated by Potter when he's lifting Weasley's shirt?" Voldemort asks idly.

Viktor looks puzzled -- he may not be aware of that particular bit of slang -- until someone hooded whispers something in his ear. Viktor nods sharply in understanding before answering.

"Surrogate. Potter and Veasley vant a child."

Voldemort steps down from his perch, four long strides taking him to Hermione.

"No, you bastard," Ron shouts, momentarily forgetting this is a memory and not reality.

Voldemort trails a finger down Hermione's cheek, smearing the tear tracks. Something about his actions remind me uncomfortably of his graveyard resurrection years before. He then skims her trembling body until one skeleton-like hand is cupping her abdomen.

We'd only asked her to become our surrogate three months ago. We hadn't even known that the first in vitro try worked. Until now.

"How delightful," Voldemort hisses. With a horrible smile on his face, he turned to Lucius. "She's yours."

I stand, stunned, while Hermione and Ron both shout, "No!" Hermione's shout is abruptly cut short when Lucius slaps her.

"My Lord?" Viktor interjects. "She is my vife."

"You should have considered that before you presented her to me," Voldemort replies, then casts Crucio on him. Viktor's screams blend with Hermione's as she's bent over a table and raped by Lucius Malfoy.

Nauseated again, I look over at Ron. He's pale and furious. Though Lucius is still alive, I don't doubt that, between Ron and I, his days are numbered.

The hours blend together as we watch Hermione gang-raped. Voldemort Stunned Viktor and confined him with a spell I've seen only once before. The spectacle only ends with Hermione is bleeding too badly for anyone to continue.

Lucius releases her from the bonds holding her to the table and watches dispassionately as she collapses in a bloody heap on the floor. A house elf appears, takes Hermione into its arms, then disappears with a loud crack.

Though I'm torn between staying to watch Voldemort and following Hermione, we have no choice. The scene changes to an infirmary of sorts. The elf uses pain-relieving measures on Hermione while she miscarries.

To Viktor's credit -- and this is the only kind thought I've had for him in a very long time -- he didn't realize Voldemort would turn Hermione into a Death Eater whore. He probably honestly thought Hermione would be kept peacefully until she gave birth to my child. Despite the Dark Mark marring his arm, he obviously had no fucking clue who Voldemort was and is.

I lean my head on Ron's shoulder, taking comfort in his presence. Hermione lays asleep and very pale on the bed. The bloody linens have been removed, her torn clothing replaced with a lightweight shift, her hair brushed free of tangles. She's never looked less like herself.

Until we got her back to our flat.

She was gone four days, four hellish days. We watch those days in a blur of rapes, sodomy and forced oral sex. At one point, both Ron and I had pulled our wands, attempting to hex the latest Death Eater. Only after Ron's Avada Kedavra went straight through him did we comprehend the futility.

Then came her rescue.

I'm unsure if I want to watch us rescue her, but Ron doesn't move. I tug his hand, motioning upward, but he doesn't move. Swallowing nervously, I turn toward the door.

The first shouts of alarm have Lucius looking up from his current desecration of Hermione. She no longer protests, no longer makes any noise.

I return my gaze to her when she cries out. Lucius is making the first of his cuts to her back, then thighs. The louder the shouts outside get -- Ron and I making our way steadily to the room where Hermione is kept -- the deeper and more vicious Lucius becomes.

He Disapparates just as the past Ron and I burst into the room. The current Ron grips my hand so tightly that I lose circulation to my fingers, but I say nothing. We are both watching and remembering finding Hermione in a heap of blood and semen after killing Viktor to get to her.

Ron finally tugs my hand and we both exit the Pensieve.

He makes it to the sink first, throwing up whatever meager breakfast he had. I didn't eat but still feel nauseated enough to stand beside Ron and dry heave.

Several minutes later, after breath-freshening charms, we sit juxtaposed on the kitchen table. Ron is tall enough that his feet reach the ground, even from the tabletop, but mine swing free.

Ron speaks first, his voice low and gravelly, anger barely held in check vibrating through it. "Is it any wonder she is the way she is?"

I grip his hand again. He squeezes it in return.

"We have to do something to help her," I say softly.

"Other than killing Lucius Malfoy in the messiest manner possible?" Ron growls.

"Including that." I can feel Ron's feral grin of approval as much as see it from the corner of my eye. "We have to help her recover."

"Isn't that what we've been doing?"

"No, we've been helping her exist."

~~~~~~~~~~

It's two years before she's able to walk outside alone; three years before she can stand to be hugged by either of us.

During that time, Ron and I both work with her, easing her back into the physical things she used to take for granted. Hermione had been a physically demonstrative person, now she was reserved to the extreme. She had once been very outspoken, now she was nearly silent.

Ron and I also eased into our new relationship with her. No longer were we merely friends, but we were her caretakers as well. She refused to live alone and we liked having her around -- now that she no longer hummed that damned song.

Ron pinpoints her turnaround to the news of Lucius Malfoy's brutal massacre. The morning she read that in the Daily Prophet she merely tapped the article and raised her eyebrows at us. Ron said, "It was the least we could do." It was the only words we ever said about the incident.

It comes as a surprise to us when, after ten years, we find ourselves together for the first time as more than just friends.