Goblet of Shadows: Chapter 6 - The Visitor

CHAPTER VI THE VISITOR Hermione! Hermione set up, staring in confusion at the eyes across from her. Hermione, it's your turn! Harry stated impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table in front of them. "Huh?" she asked, taking in her surroundings. "It's your turn!" Harry reminded her, gesturing towards the muggle chest set in front of them. "Oh!" she replied weekly. "Right. Yeah." She picked up the black night, pausing at its heaviness in her palm, before placing it on one of the available black squares. Harry raised his eyebrow at her in question before assessing the board, giving her Hermione the opportunity to look around. The Scottish countryside flitted past the window. Her cushioned seat rattling softly as she took stock of their closed booth. She realized that they were on a train, both oddly familiar and yet disconcertingly different. The side that Harry sat on was pristine white. Everything from the cushions he was sitting on to the clothes he was wearing. The whites stretched and cleaved, cleanly down the table, meeting the black that covered her Hermione's half of the booth. Harry, unaware or uncaring of their strange environment, placed one of his palms down and looked up at her expectantly. She was momentarily startled by the contrast of his blue eyes. Her skin breaking out in goosebumps as she searched the smooth expanse of skin around his throat. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she found herself surprised at the absence of another color. Gold perhaps? Hermione, Harry's side. Hermione clumsily grasped her nearest palm. "Right, sorry," she muttered, as she placed it down randomly on the board. Harry renewed his assessment of the board as he absentmindedly dipped his hand into a nearby paper bag, pulling forward a few soggy chips that he stuffed into his mouth. Her gaze felt transfixed on the bright red packaging, a familiar logo stamped on the front. The words "Happy Meal" stood out, pulling forward a memory that she couldn't quite grasp. A memory? She tried to turn her attention back to the board, but the red paper packaging kept drawing her in. Why was it so red? Why was there so much of it? "Oh right," Harry exclaimed, reaching over into the bag and handing her a red box. "I forgot, this is for you." Hermione tentatively grabbed the paper box, feeling her unease grow. Harry once again turned back to the board. His fingers drumming against the white wood as he chewed his lip and bought. "Harry," Hermione croaked, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Harry, where are we going?" His eyes flicked up to her in surprise before a chest or cat grin broke out on his face. "You know what, my dear. I actually don't know." Hermione felt her stomach flip at the words. Her blood run cold. "Where would you like to go?" he asked. Panic began to bubble up beneath her skin. "Home," she whispered through trembling lips, unsure where her home even was. He nodded knowingly, pushing his rook forward to claim her pawn. Harry leaned his elbows forward casually on the table, propping his chin up in his hands as he silently assessed her rigid stance. "Your turn," he sang before slurping his drink through a plastic straw. Crossing her legs to hide their trembling, Hermione picked up her night again. "Harry, I don't want to play anymore." He frowned at her in confusion, though it felt disingenuous, a child playing dumb after being caught. "Hermione, you're not allowed to stop playing," he jotted. "You have to finish the game." Hermione felt tears spill over. Everything felt wrong. She searched his expression for anything familiar, though she wasn't sure what familiar was. Her eyes caught the unmarked skin on his forehead and her face paled. She shakily placed the night down on the board, before opening the red box in front of her to escape his gaze. As she tore open the packaging she gasped and horror, her hand flying to her mouth. "Don't you like it?" Harry asked casually, as he leaned forward to clutch the item out of the box. "I thought you were quite attached to it." Hermione shook violently as he gently turned over the plastic figurine, stroking its red hair in his hands. "Hercule," he murmured, "killa of the nemian lion." Terror lurched through her body at the side of the figurine, so out of place here on the train. It didn't belong here, not in this place, not in his hands. "Give it back," she whispered. Harry stopped twirling the figurine, smirking as he dangled it in front of her. "But what if I wanted to keep it?" he replied teasingly. Hermione wasn't sure why, but she knew she couldn't let him have it. Fury burst in her blood hot and powerful. "He couldn't take it." "Give it back," she snapped, diving for the figurine and clawing it from his grasp. Her skin burned, cold fires spreading up her arm from where her hand met his. She tried to pull away, but his other hand grasped firmly on her wrist, halting her movements. Hermione, Harry gasped, the desperation in his voice slamming her gaze into his. Harry stared at her wildly green eyes blazing. Hermione, you have to run. He's coming. He's coming. The cold flames danced higher beneath her skin, burrowing into her chest. "Who's coming, Harry?" But Harry just gripped her harder, clinging to her with all his strength as his body spasmed and shook. "He's coming. He's coming. He's coming," he gurgled, his net contorting into an unnatural angle. Hermione screamed and terror as Harry's eyes rolled into the back of his head. "Coming for what, Harry?" she sobbed. "What does he want?" Black eyes snapped back at her. Harry's body lay still. A chorus of whispers spilled from his bloodless lips. "Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang." "To collect." Hermione launched upright, an animalistic whale tearing through her throat. She scrambled against foreign tiles, leaving streaks of mud and grime in her wake. Squinting against the unbearable brightness in the room, she frantically looked around, eyes landing on a steel drain against the tiles on the floor. "Melon," a male voice exclaimed, causing her to shrink back away from the sound. She threw herself against the closest wall, curling herself up against it to shield herself from the light. The faint sound of whimpering echoed around the barren room. Dimly, Hermione recognized it was coming from her. "Footfalls padded towards her. Would you shut up," the voice snapped. "Salazza's sake, if I knew you'd be this balmy, I would have kept you unconscious." Hermione held her breath, stealing a glance at familiar black dragon-hide boots. It had been a long time since she had seen another human, and the presence of one, a male at that, alone with her in a room made her stomach roll. She turned her head to reach on the floor, her body already preparing for what would come. "Oh, for fuck's sakes," he groaned. "Comp down, all right, I'm not here to hurt you." As she curled over to stop her stomach seizing, she glanced up from her crumpled position to see a man, no, a boy, clad in sinister-looking death-eater robes. He peered down at her, maskless, a frown-creasing between his brows, and his wand firmly in his white knuckled grip, as he watched her try to collect herself. The boy looked almost comical. His robes enveloping his small form. The look of disgust he was trying so hard to convey gave the impression of a child playing dress-up. This boy did not look like a threat, though she knew more than any other that looks could be deceiving. "What's your name?" he asked harshly, and she stiffened at the question. She had no name. They had stolen it a long time ago. The boy pushed back his linky brown hair impatiently, tapping his foot as he waited for a response she would not give. He let out a long exhale. "Okay, well, whatever your name is, you need to come with me. The dog load instructed me to collect a prisoner on this island and bring them in. I'm guessing that's you?" Again, Hermione remained silent. She wasn't sure she could speak, having been overwhelmed by the presence of another voice. The lack of silence felt deafening, the light burning her retinas. The young death-eater seemed to feel the opposite. it. He shuffled uncomfortably at her lack of answers. His mask of bravado slipping as she stared at him in terror and shock, giving way to an unsure child out of his depth. "You were hard to find," he explained, assessing her questioningly. "I didn't think the woods around the prison would let me in. The one else has been able to. My brother said he'd been brought into practice on a prisoner a few years ago. Somewhere on the seventh floor, I didn't think anyone would be there, but sure enough there you were," he paused, frowned deepening. "I thought you were dead at first. You were sleeping pretty deeply, and I couldn't wake you up. So I brought you here. Now that you're awake, though, it should be easier." Hermione recoiled at his words, pressing herself further against the wall. She didn't like to think what easy or meant. Instinctively, Hermione scanned the room again, looking for anything she could use as a weapon or a means of escape. She recognized the iron bolt door at the far end of the wall, a twin to the one in her cell. Realizing she was still within the prison, in some sort of communal bathroom, she wondered if she could run for it. Maybe she could find another cell to barricade herself in while she waited for Daryl's return. How long had she been asleep for? A few hours? A few days? Another horrifying thought sprang into her mind. What if Daryl never came back at all? The death-eater eyed her wearily as she stood on shaking legs. Her knees buckling as her withered frame prepared to bolt. Hermione managed a few stumbling steps before collapsing back to the ground, a weight around her neck throwing her off balance. Tentatively, she touched the cool metal around her throat. Her fingertips tracing a scaled collar coiling around her neck. She peered wide eyed at the voice standing above her, his gaze flashing with pity. "It's a precaution," he murmured, swallowing hard. "It holds your magic so you can't fight back." Hermione squashed down the urge to vomit again. He had touched her while she slept. He had had his hands around her neck, and she hadn't even realized. She clawed at the collar desperately, trying to tear the foreign object from her skin. "Hey, stop," he snapped. She snarled in response, spitting and kicking as she writhed on the floor, smearing grime and blood against the white tiles as her ragged nails tore at the skin of her throat. A rabid animal backed into a corner. The death-eater raised his wand in warning. "Oye," he barked, "stop it!" Hermione began to scream in English. "It wasn't fucking fair. They had led her to believe they wouldn't come. That she would live and die in isolation, untouched by their bloodied hands. That she would die quietly, slipping away as starvation claimed her. It would have been peaceful. It would have felt safe." She could hear the boy yelling, his voice breaking as he threatened her with curses and pain. But the spell never came. His wand lay dormant between his quivering fingers. He was out of his depth, and so she screamed into oblivion. Tucked under the collar around her neck, Hermione felt the rings still wrapped securely around her throat. She clung to it tightly, the opal digging into her palm. Her voice grew horse as she pictured her cell wall. She let the image ground her, building it up in her mind, stone by stone. She pictured the layers of moss and mold, the droplets of moisture that dripped softly to the ground below. The cracks she could still feel under her fingertips. She built her wall, letting it block out the light and the sounds and the horror, until the darkness and cold wrapped her protectively in its cloak, until there was nothing else. Hermione opened her eyes. Her gaze unfocused as she took in the boy still hovering over her. He looked lost. His shoulders slumped into feet as he stared at her crumpled form. The sadness in his gaze aging his otherwise useful face. She wondered how a boy, barely fourteen, ended up in this situation. Why was he, out of all the others, sent to collect her for her death? "You need to shower," he croaked. "He said you have to be presentable." Hermione swallowed, understanding. She shakily rose to her feet, obliging his request. She knew when she was beaten. What did it matter how her life ended? All that mattered was that it would. She had been surviving for so long, fighting for so long, and for what? Where had that gotten her? It would be a kindness for it all to finally end. He gave her a long lingering look, one that reflected her own. He seemed so much smaller now that she stood. "Apysky," he murmured, pointing his wand to her neck. He stared down at his wand, chewing the inside of his cheek and thought. "My name is Valseth," he whispered in a rush, as if afraid someone was listening. Hermione blinked and surprised. That theaders didn't just give their names to their captives. They didn't bother with any common curses. They were above it. To give her his name and he saw her as human. Shuffling awkwardly, the boy, Valseth, turned and walked towards the resty pipe fused to the wall. Tapping his wand against its spout, water began to rush forward, pulling around the drain on the floor. "You'll have to get undressed," he said, avoiding her questioning gaze. "You can wash, and then we'll go." He let the implication hang in the air. Stealing herself, Hermione began to undress. As the last of her tattered clothing was stripped from her body, she watched the color drain from his face. Valseth opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes widened in shock and horror. Hermione swore she even saw fear flicker across his face. "What?" he began before the rest of the words failed him. He stood staring, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "I--you--what--what is that?" he stammered, just cheering to her body. Hermione didn't know how to answer. He'd never anticipated someone laying eyes on her. Looking back, Hermione realized that seeing another person hadn't even been a possibility for her. The future was some foreign entity that she could not touch. Dwelling on it would only bring dread of things she could not control, or worse, hope for something better. Both scenarios brought nothing but anguish, so she instead focused on her life in the present, finding little pieces of peace in the cold and the dark. Hermione looked down at her frail naked body, finally able to see her waxy skin after years of low light. The result was startling. Ribs protruded out like wings, stretching so far out from her concaved waist she could probably fit her fist under her ribcage. Her hips, no, her pelvis, she realized her entire pelvis was visible, with her leg bones jutting out like reeds. Hermione realized she should be disturbed. Instead, she viewed her body with detached curiosity, unable to grasp that the body she was examining was her own. "Why, who would?" Forsyth began, before falling silent. Hermione could see the various questions flashing in his eyes. "What is that?" he choked. His voice trembled as he cycled back to his original question. Hermione cast her eyes over the mirage of scars. So many they overlapped each other, puckering one over another in shiny lumps of red, pink and white. Evidence of the cruelty at the hands of her captors. But Forsyth wasn't staring at the scars of her pain. He was focused on the others. The intricate ones carved with surgical precision. The ones she'd created. "Pres," she whispered enormously, unwilling and unsure of how to even begin to describe her reasoning for self-mutilation. The inser seemed to slap awareness back into the young death-eater, as if he hadn't expected the walking corpse in front of him to respond. He cleared his throat. "Shawa," he ordered, lowering his gaze. as he gestured to the pipe. He stepped back as Hermione shuffled over to the frigid water. Forsyth handed her a bar of soap, as she stood unmoving under the freezing spray. Her body long accustomed to the numbing sensation. "Wash," he prompted. But Hermione remained still, refusing to raise the soap to her body. "Melon's beard, you have to fucking wash," he snapped. It seemed like her. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. Sying in frustration, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her towards him. A panicked cry burst out of Hermione instinctively. The boy reacted immediately, dropping her wrist and stepping back. "I'm not—no, it's not for—" he stammered, red-flushing his cheeks. "It's not for that," he rushed. "I haven't—I wouldn't do—" but you need to be clean. Hermione cringed at the implication of his words. He dropped his gaze solemnly. "No, no, they aren't planning to—" it's not—you're not there for—" that—" he finished quietly. Eyes trailing on the floor. "Are they going to kill me?" she asked softly. Her voice scratchy and raw. The young dad theater hesitated. "I—I'm not sure," he answered quietly. "Probably." "Would it be quick," she murmured. He looked at her then. The unspoken answer heavy in his eyes. Hermione knew the answer already. She had experienced most of it herself. Forsyth stood there defeated, the bar of soap hanging limply by his side. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "He's holding my brother until I return." Pity stabbed her chest as she took in the boy's broken expression. A child forced to strip her and bring her to her death. Forced to carry out unspeakable acts in the name of his master. Hermione trusted he was telling the truth. His face hid nothing. The boy was still innocent. He wouldn't last long despite completing this task. Voldemort had no room for weakness. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay, hand me the soap." Tendatively, he passed it to her. His shaking fingers brushed hers. Warm fingertips meeting cold. Forsyth stepped back once again to allow Hermione to wash. Turning his back to grant her some privacy. An act of foolishness or trust she couldn't decide. Either way, there was nowhere for her to run, and with the collar and her physical state she couldn't fight. It will be over soon. The nightmare was about to end. Once she scrubbed herself as best she could, she stumbled over to the folded white bedsheet Forsyth had laid out. As she picked it up, Hermione realized it was a white hooded robe. Pulling it over her matted wet curls, she struck the material. It was thick and silky to the touch. Whatever it was, it felt expensive. A strange clothing choice to be executed in. But then again, Voldemort had always been a man fixated on symbolism. Dressed as a sacrificial lamb, she announced she was ready to go. Forsyth turned around to examine his offering to the dark lord. His eyes landing on the top of her head. "Your hair," he stammered. "I don't know any hair charms." He fiddled his wand nervously as if the state of her hair would seal his death. Hermione didn't have the heart to tell him that not even the most advanced hair charms and a tub of sleek easy could fix it. "Just cut it off," she sighed, wondering why they were sitting here pondering over her hair as if she wasn't about to become a corpse shortly. Though she could understand him wanting to do it right if his brother's life was on the line. He fumbled with his wand before aiming it at her head, incanting a shaving spell, hardened clumps of hair fell to her feet. As each lump fell, Hermione's head began to feel lighter. The cool air kissed her bare scalp. Satisfied with his work, Forsyth lowered his wand and reached into his pocket. Pulling out a folded hinkerchief, he gently unwrapped the edges, unveiling a silver arrowhead. He paused, frowning. She wondered what he was thinking. If he could, would he save her instead? Would he run? If given the choice without the threat to his brother, would he have chosen light? Instead, she asked, "Where are we going?" gesturing to the port key in his outstretched palm. "Just outside hogs made," he replied softly. "So hogwarts, then," Hermione thought, "fitting her life would end at the place where this all began, where she had discovered the wonders of magic, where she had made her first friends and where she had lost them." Forsyth hesitated before grabbing her hand, interlocking their fingers and giving her palm a light squeeze. It was an act of both comfort and apology. She gave him a week's mile, as if to say, "It's okay," because she understood if a roar split the air. The bathroom tiles rattled around them, vibrating through the castle. She knew that roar. "What was that," Forsyth cried, dropping the port key in fright. The roar sounded closer, the prison seeming to come alive with the sound. The ground shook as Forsyth crouched down, reaching for the port key as he clutched her hand tightly. "Wait," Hermione cried, tugging him back. "We have to fucking go," he screamed, pulling her back towards him. Terror shone in his eyes. Hermione tried to wrench her hand away from his face like grit. "Wait! Just let me say goodbye," she pleaded, clawing at his arm to try and get away. "To get to him." "Darrel," she cried. The roar became deafening, tiles shattered as the walls began to split open. "Darrel!" Hermione screamed. He had come back in time. He had come back for her. Forsyth pulled her to the ground, wrestling her desperately as he lunged for the silver arrow just out of his reach. He cried out in terror as debris began to rain down around them. The bathroom door exploded in a shower of metal and rock. Ice instantly branched out towards all corners of the room. Darrel loomed in the doorframe, his robes billowing like black smoke. Death incarnate. Forsyth screamed as Darrel rushed towards them, rushed towards her. Hermione reached out towards her friend. Tears coated her cheeks. He was here. She could say goodbye. But as her hand stretched out for his, white robes reaching for black, she felt the familiar tug at her navel. Anguish washed over Hermione as she began to feel the bathrooms swirl away. Screaming mixed with the roaring as the port key activated in Forsyth's hand. "Darrel!" she wailed, as his bony fingertips fell a hair width short of hers. His black figure rapidly distorting as she pulled away from him and the home she had come to know. The world was spinning in a world of color as she was dragged from one place to the next. She screamed at the unfairness of it all. Hot rage boiled in her blood. She hissed, hitting and pushing, trying to peel her body away from Forsyth's while they were thrown wildly through the aether. Hermione fought with all the strength she had left. She had to get back to Darrel. Hermione landed hard on her back. The force of it knocking the air from her lungs. Something hot washed over her as she tried to draw breath. She tasted copper, as wet thuds ranged down around her. She rolled over and was violently sick, throwing up bile from her empty stomach. Dimly, she realized Forsyth was still clutching her hand. She tugged away forcefully. Forsyth's hand moved easily with her, still gripping tight and somehow surprisingly light. Wiping to clear some things sticky out of her eyes, Hermione finally glanced down at the hand she was holding. It was not attached to a body, where the rest of Forsyth should have been, was just a meaty chunk that ended at what used to be his forearm. Hermione frantically used her other hand to pry faucets rigid fingers off hers. Casting his hand aside, she scrambled away in horror. As she slid and stumbled on her hands and backside, she realized she wasn't lying on some muddy roadside outside of Hogsmead. She was lying in faucet. Partially submerged in a large pile of blood and meaty pulp. Hermione stared numbly at the horrific scene around her. Utterly frozen in disbelief that the boy who was handing her soap mere minutes ago was now a pile of slop. A low whistle sounded behind her. She vacantly turned her head to see three black robed men donning the familiar silver masks. "Well, look what we have here, one chuckled. Quite a mess you've made." [Music]