These Dark And Hollow Nights

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Measure of Darkness

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Measure of Darkness

Ginny’s POV

She had never known such complete darkness. It surrounded her, even when she opened her eyes. If she held her hand out in front of her, she wouldn’t have known it was there at all.

Ginny had lost all sense of time in the darkness. She had no idea how long she’d been down there—it could have been years, months, or even days, but she wouldn’t have known. And that scared her the most, more than anything.

She had tried to escape, of course, but it was impossible. When she’d first woken up in darkness, she gotten up and touched every surface, hoping to find a way to escape. But there was none. The door she found was locked, and with her wand gone, she had no hope of getting it open. Whoever had taken her—and she still didn’t know who that was—had left her completely defenseless.

She was alone in the darkness, with no way of escaping. She had never been so alone in her life.

Sometimes, a woman would join her in the darkness. The woman never told her who she was, but Ginny knew, somehow, that this was her captor. Sometimes, the woman would laugh at her. Her laughter was how she’d been able to tell it was, indeed, a woman that had taken her.

After the woman was finished laughing at her, Ginny would convulse in pain, a pain that could only come from the Cruciatus Curse. That was how she knew her captor was a witch.

Finally, when she was done, Ginny would lie on the floor, sweating and crying, and the woman would laugh again.

‘Oh, silly girl,’ she said. ‘Your silly boyfriend will join you soon, if all goes as planned. It’s a good thing you bleed so easily.’

And then she was gone, and Ginny was alone again. She was horrified at the woman’s words. Why did everyone always seem to be after Harry? It didn’t seem fair. Wasn’t he allowed a little bit of peace?

Someone gave her food—usually bread and something that tasted like soup, but she wasn’t sure—and water, and she usually gobbled it down, but what she really wanted was a first-aid kit and a bath. She was filthy, and her body ached from head to foot. She was pretty sure that she had a bruise or two, but there was no way to be sure. But no matter how many times the woman hit her with the Cruciatus, no matter how much it hurt, she had never once wished for death. Many people in her situation certainly would’ve. But how was she supposed to protect Harry if she was dead?

Some days stood out more than others. The woman didn’t come every day, but when she did, it stood out in Ginny’s mind. When she slept, she had nightmares, and often woke up screaming for Harry. Sometimes she tried to forget where she was, and remembered instead. It was always easier after she remembered.

Easier, but not better. After all, how could anything get better when she was in a place like this?

‘Oh, look. She’s crying,’ said a mocking voice above Ginny’s head, snapping her out of her memories. ‘Poor little Weasel. What can we do to make her happy again?’

There was a girlish giggle. ‘I have an idea,’ said another voice. ‘Why don’t we dress her up and make her pretty again? She looks so filthy. Anyone would be crying if they looked so hideous.’

Someone laughed, and Ginny shivered, opening her eyes. But it didn’t matter. She couldn’t see anything. ‘Good idea,’ said the first voice. She felt something nudge her foot. ‘Come on, Weasley. Get up already.’