Sanity [Harry Potter; Hermione]
Title: Sanity
Character: Hermione (gen)
Rating: R (torture, angst, implied character deaths)
Summary: “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.”
Word Count: 713
A/N: Inspired by xylodemon’s Lucius/Hermione drabble, Hunger.
~~~
The whip flashes over her back, and she can feel red snaking out in burning tattoos, patterns that brand her pale skin, ripple over her spine, reaching her ribs and shoulder blades that jut out from her tired body. She hasn’t looked in the mirror in - weeks? months? years? - but she imagines that her heart, and lungs are like stains against the sheen of flesh that is stretched taut now, dry from thirst and hunger, and cold, so very cold.
Crack.
Hermione’s throat is dry, and when she gasps into the sting of leather, it feels more like the air is being sucked from her, swallowed by the vacuum of death and decay that lingers in the cell. She tries to distract herself as - six, seven, eight, nine - lashes course over her skin, the touch crackling like fire. She recites assignments from charms (Swish and flick, swish and flick), and potions ingredients (shrivelfigs and knotgrass and asphodel). It’s important that she remembers these things, because when she gets out of here, she will be Hermione again. And Hermione knows these things.
She wonders why her muscles haven’t gone numb yet, why her whole body hasn’t just shut down and given up, given in. Her mind is used to this by now, but, then, she is Hermione Granger, and her mind has always been easily adaptive to her surroundings.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen lashes. Eyelashes. Hermione blinks. She’s lost the ability to cry, supposes there is too much dust in the cell, not enough water, not enough feeling left. She doesn’t have a reason to cry anymore.
The whip stops, and Hermione wonders if it’s only a pause, a comma, an incomplete tho-
Crack.
Hermione falls forward, the blow of the whip like a disarming spell gone awry, her matted hair falling in her face, and her palms hitting the stone floor with an echoing slap.
She catches the breath she is not allowed to inhale, and her mind scrolls through her favorite chapter of Hogwarts, A History. The words sound themselves out in her mind. Rowena Ravenclaw, known for her intellect and creativity, came from the glen… Hermione feels an arm on her shoulder, long, tapering fingers that feel deceivingly gentle and tender as they brush back Hermione’s hair, threading through it slowly, parting it from the bleeding welts on Hermione’s back.
There is a voice against the shell of her ear now, a sound like light and laughter, and words that sound wrong when spoken in that kind, calm tone.
“You know,” the voice says, “This is going to take a long time to heal.” A pink tongue flicks out between parted lips as the voice says the word ‘long’, lingering over the vowel as a cold finger drags down Hermione’s spine.
Hermione doesn’t respond. She never does, whether out of fear or betrayal, it is unclear. She shifts her focus, tries desperately to think about things that are not stringy blonde hair and silver eyes and misplaced trust - (did she ever trust?)
She thinks instead of Hogwarts history, of the diagrams she drew in Arithmancy class that charted the lunar calendar, of Ron and Harry swerving and diving and soaring on their brooms during a Quidditch match. Her mind is elsewhere and that’s what’s important in the end. Didn’t Ron always tell her that she spent too much time thinking? If she hides her thoughts amidst the pages of their Transfiguration textbook, things will turn out all right.
She feels her muscles, bones, skin tense as she shivers, hating those hands for being smooth where her own are cracked and calloused, hating that mind for being able to leave this cell, to escape and be free and learn. How Hermione longs to learn. She repeats the names of magical plants to herself now, her lips moving but no sound coming out. She doesn’t want to waste her voice. She doesn’t know how long it will be before that is taken from her too, just like everything else - Ginny, Ron, Harry…
The voice is there again, a smile behind the words.
“Don’t worry,” Luna’s voice is low now. “You’re just as sane-“
“-as I am,” Hermione hears herself finish, the words settling into the corners of the room with bitter truth.
~~~
Character: Hermione (gen)
Rating: R (torture, angst, implied character deaths)
Summary: “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.”
Word Count: 713
A/N: Inspired by xylodemon’s Lucius/Hermione drabble, Hunger.
~~~
The whip flashes over her back, and she can feel red snaking out in burning tattoos, patterns that brand her pale skin, ripple over her spine, reaching her ribs and shoulder blades that jut out from her tired body. She hasn’t looked in the mirror in - weeks? months? years? - but she imagines that her heart, and lungs are like stains against the sheen of flesh that is stretched taut now, dry from thirst and hunger, and cold, so very cold.
Crack.
Hermione’s throat is dry, and when she gasps into the sting of leather, it feels more like the air is being sucked from her, swallowed by the vacuum of death and decay that lingers in the cell. She tries to distract herself as - six, seven, eight, nine - lashes course over her skin, the touch crackling like fire. She recites assignments from charms (Swish and flick, swish and flick), and potions ingredients (shrivelfigs and knotgrass and asphodel). It’s important that she remembers these things, because when she gets out of here, she will be Hermione again. And Hermione knows these things.
She wonders why her muscles haven’t gone numb yet, why her whole body hasn’t just shut down and given up, given in. Her mind is used to this by now, but, then, she is Hermione Granger, and her mind has always been easily adaptive to her surroundings.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen lashes. Eyelashes. Hermione blinks. She’s lost the ability to cry, supposes there is too much dust in the cell, not enough water, not enough feeling left. She doesn’t have a reason to cry anymore.
The whip stops, and Hermione wonders if it’s only a pause, a comma, an incomplete tho-
Crack.
Hermione falls forward, the blow of the whip like a disarming spell gone awry, her matted hair falling in her face, and her palms hitting the stone floor with an echoing slap.
She catches the breath she is not allowed to inhale, and her mind scrolls through her favorite chapter of Hogwarts, A History. The words sound themselves out in her mind. Rowena Ravenclaw, known for her intellect and creativity, came from the glen… Hermione feels an arm on her shoulder, long, tapering fingers that feel deceivingly gentle and tender as they brush back Hermione’s hair, threading through it slowly, parting it from the bleeding welts on Hermione’s back.
There is a voice against the shell of her ear now, a sound like light and laughter, and words that sound wrong when spoken in that kind, calm tone.
“You know,” the voice says, “This is going to take a long time to heal.” A pink tongue flicks out between parted lips as the voice says the word ‘long’, lingering over the vowel as a cold finger drags down Hermione’s spine.
Hermione doesn’t respond. She never does, whether out of fear or betrayal, it is unclear. She shifts her focus, tries desperately to think about things that are not stringy blonde hair and silver eyes and misplaced trust - (did she ever trust?)
She thinks instead of Hogwarts history, of the diagrams she drew in Arithmancy class that charted the lunar calendar, of Ron and Harry swerving and diving and soaring on their brooms during a Quidditch match. Her mind is elsewhere and that’s what’s important in the end. Didn’t Ron always tell her that she spent too much time thinking? If she hides her thoughts amidst the pages of their Transfiguration textbook, things will turn out all right.
She feels her muscles, bones, skin tense as she shivers, hating those hands for being smooth where her own are cracked and calloused, hating that mind for being able to leave this cell, to escape and be free and learn. How Hermione longs to learn. She repeats the names of magical plants to herself now, her lips moving but no sound coming out. She doesn’t want to waste her voice. She doesn’t know how long it will be before that is taken from her too, just like everything else - Ginny, Ron, Harry…
The voice is there again, a smile behind the words.
“Don’t worry,” Luna’s voice is low now. “You’re just as sane-“
“-as I am,” Hermione hears herself finish, the words settling into the corners of the room with bitter truth.
~~~