Cursed
2 May 1998
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Hermione froze, her knees nearly buckling as a sense of dread washed over her. No, this couldn’t be happening. But it was. She would know the sound of that arrogant voice anywhere. It was a voice that haunted her dreams. Run! Her instincts screamed, but there was nowhere to run, and Hermione found that she was unable to think clearly, much less move.
Fuck! They’d been so stupid to blindly exit the passage that led from the Chamber of Secrets into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Why hadn’t they anticipated the fact that someone may be hiding, waiting for their return? With her hands full of Basilisk fangs, there was simply no way she could retrieve her wand from the pocket of her jacket quickly enough to avoid the curse that would soon come her way.
Think! Hermione ordered herself as Antonin Dolohov stepped from the shadows, his wand trained directly at her. But for once in her life, her brain failed her. Suddenly, she knew exactly how a rabbit cornered by a fox must feel. Momentarily paralyzed by shock and fear, she could only pray that Ron would hear Dolohov and slip out of the chamber quietly and stun him before he could curse her.
But Ron wasn’t there, and she couldn’t wait around and hope that he would arrive in time to save her. She had to do something!
In one swift motion, Hermione released the fangs and fumbled for her wand. Even knowing that it was likely hopeless, she couldn’t just stand there and take a curse without attempting to fight back.
Dolohov chuckled menacingly, his deep voice reverberating off of the tiled walls as he slowly and calmly sauntered toward her. His stormy blue eyes were alight with an obvious thrill that turned her stomach as he taunted, “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you, girlie. On second thought, you should worry. Because if you manage to survive tonight, you’ll live the rest of your life wishing that I had.”
The sound of her own pulse thundered in Hermione’s ears as she focused single-mindedly on her target. Finally, her fingers closed over her wand, but she was too late. Dolohov sneered menacingly, twisted his wand into a complicated figure-eight motion, and confidently cast a spell that she didn’t recognise. “Ango de Erupit Amor,”
A jet of silver light shot from the tip of his wand and hit Hermione squarely in the heart. She saw it hit her, felt the impact, but aside from a quick tingling sensation, nothing happened.
Raising her wand, Hermione began to fire off spell after spell, but Dolohov was already slipping into the corridor. He fled, laughing maniacally, and the sound sent chills down Hermione’s spine.
“Hermione!” Ron’s cry of desperation made her turn. His face contorted with terror as he swore, “Fuck! Are you alright? Did he hurt you? I should have come up first. I’m so bloody sorry.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Or at least I think I am. He hit me with a spell that I didn’t recognise, but I don’t feel injured.”
“Let me see,” Ron demanded, moving toward her, his arms outstretched, ready to check her for injuries. Without knowing why, she shook her head and backed out of his reach, bending down to gather up the fangs that she’d dropped.
“Ron, I told you, I’m fine. Before he cursed me, he said that he wouldn’t kill me, but if I survive tonight I would wish that he had.”
“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?!”
Hermione shrugged nonchalantly, but her heart beat rapidly, refusing to slow even as the surge of adrenaline began to fade, causing her hands to tremble slightly. She was well aware that now wasn’t the time to dwell on whatever Dolohov had done to her, but she was terrified. Turning away from Ron, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath to clear her head, determined to focus on the task at hand instead of whatever bleak fate she would be faced with if she survived the battle.
With feigned bravery, she turned back to face Ron, summoning all of the courage and determination that she had left. “Honestly, I don’t have the slightest clue, but we have more important things to worry about right now. We have to focus on helping Harry and getting through this battle alive. Speaking of which, let’s go find him and see if he’s figured out where the Horcrux is hidden in the castle.”
Without giving Ron an opportunity to say or do more, Hermione strode to the door, slowly inched it open, and cautiously peered outside into the corridor. When she was assured that there were no immediate dangers lurking outside, she led the way out of the bathroom.
Kissing someone wasn’t supposed to make you feel as if every inch of your body was on fire. Nerve endings that Hermione didn’t even know she had burned with searing, indescribable pain. The Cruciatus felt like a light tickle compared to this. She’d acted on pure impulse. A stupid impulse at that, but she’d been curious to know if the chemistry that she’d felt growing with Ron had been real or just a product of a stressful situation. And when he remembered the House Elves, she’d just reacted. Unfortunately, she’d immediately regretted it. The scream that was ripped from her throat thankfully caused Ron to release her. Unfortunately, he immediately began touching her all over in an attempt to find the source of her distress.
“Ron…” she panted, the agonizing pain preventing her from getting out more than that, “don’t touch.” But he didn’t seem to hear her, and through eyes that were beginning to blur from the agony that she felt, Hermione could see Harry rushing toward them. She couldn’t take more.
Gathering all of the strength that she possessed, she shrieked, “Stop touching me!”
When Ron pulled his hands back she immediately felt relief. Meeting his wide-eyed gaze, she took a few steps back to put distance between them. “Just don’t touch me, okay. I’m fine as long as you don’t. There’s no time to figure it out now. We have a job to do.”
“Hermione,” Harry began.
“Just leave it, Harry. I’m fine, I promise. We need to find the snake.”
“She’s not fine. Dolohov hit her with a curse that she didn’t recognise, and now she’s in pain.”
Hermione sighed deeply. She hadn’t wanted to tell Harry anything. He had more than enough to deal with. They could have told him later, but Ron apparently didn’t think so.
Harry turned to face her fully, his eyes wide with fear. “Where did the curse hit you? Where does it hurt? I won’t touch you, but you have to show us.”
“He hit me in the fucking heart. Do you expect me to just open my shirt and let you both have a look?” She’d hoped that the sarcasm in her voice would help deter them from taking this further. But no such luck.
Sighing heavily, Harry just stared at her, looking very much like he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “We’ve both seen your tits. We lived with you in a tiny tent for months. If you think we haven’t seen them, you’ve gone mad. But that’s not the point and you know it. And if you don’t show me right now I’m going to stun you and look for myself.”
“Fine,” Hermione huffed, unbuttoning the top few buttons on her shirt and pulling it to the side, exposing the area above her left breast. “See, I’m fine, perfectly unblemished.” Except she wasn’t. While the skin there wasn’t damaged, it wasn’t unmarked either. Where there had once been a smooth expanse of creamy skin, was now marked with a series of strange squiggles, loops, and lines that she couldn’t decipher. What was even more peculiar was that the marks didn’t look fresh. They looked like old scars — flesh-colored, but shinier than the surrounding area.
Actually seeing the visible evidence of Dolohov’s curse made Hermione’s stomach drop. Until that moment she’d been able to pretend that everything was going to be okay, but she wasn’t so sure anymore.
Swallowing hard and willing herself not to cry, Hermione put on a brave face as she met the worried gazes of her friends. “I’ll be fine. There’s nothing we can do about this right now. Let’s go kick some Death Eater arse, and we’ll worry about me later.”
But as they exited the Room of Requirement, Hermione couldn’t help but worry about what was happening to her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Dolohov had completely changed her life — and not in a way that she would like.
Fat tears rolled down Hermione’s cheeks. She was unable to utter even a single word. Death by Fiendfyre couldn’t possibly be worse than the agony that she felt at the moment. As long as no one made direct contact with her skin, the sensation was dulled, but every second that she remained on the broom sandwiched between Ron and Goyle was pure torture.
Why was even the slightest touch so painful? Was that what Dolohov’s curse did? Would it cause her to be literally tortured by something so mundane as physical contact? The thought was devastating so she pushed it from her mind and concentrated on the exit that now loomed in front of them.
No, no, no! Not Fred! He couldn’t be… She refused to even think the word as she helped Percy, Ron, and Harry remove the pile of rubble from his lifeless body. When he was finally free, Percy, reached down and placed two fingers against Fred’s throat. “His heart is beating, but it’s slow and weak.” His eyes darted around desperately. “Can someone send a Patronus to Madam Pomfrey? Maybe she can help.”
Hermione nodded and urgently searched her mind for a happy memory. “Expecto Patronum,” she spoke the incantation clearly, but nothing happened. Near tears, she tried again. Shaking her head sadly, she gasped out, “Harry, I can’t…”
Without a word, Harry summoned Prongs, who galloped off on his mission.
While they waited, the small group began to employ every bit of collective medical knowledge that they had, and when Fred finally took an unassisted breath, they cheered in relief. And once both George and Madam Pomfrey turned up to oversee Fred’s transport to the medical safe room that had been hastily erected in the dungeons, Hermione, Ron, and Harry returned to the fray.
Finally, it was over! Hermione rushed forward to hug her best friend as a joyous sense of relief filled her entire being. But the joy was short-lived because of the searing pain that immediately seized her body when she flung herself at Harry. Slipping away from the crowd before she was crushed by all of Harry’s well-wishers, she yearned for a few moments of quiet. There was a lot to think about, but she knew that there wouldn’t be time for that until much later.
That morning, while the others slept, Hermione lay awake, sobbing quietly into her pillow as she realised that she was likely cursed to a life without physical touch. Was that what Dolohov had meant? Did his cruelty know no bounds? Hermione knew now that she couldn’t touch anyone without pain, and Dolohov was known for vicious curses of his own creation. Curses that often had no known counter.
Rushing to the bathroom, she retched into the toilet, emptying her stomach of the sandwich that she’d forced down before falling into bed. Unable to muster the will to move further, she curled up on the tile floor, shivering. She felt so alone, so completely isolated. How could she possibly live like this?
Eventually, she made herself crawl back to bed, but it was a long while before Hermione’s weary body finally succumbed to sleep. Her mind raced as she thought of all of the things that she would miss if she couldn’t bear to touch anyone. It was devastating. If this truly was her future, it was a bleak one. She’d never be able to have a normal romantic relationship, marriage would be out of the question, and so would children. And her parents… she’d intended to locate them after the war and restore their memories, but what was the point? They’d be miserable in their sadness for her.
Needing the escape that sleep would provide, Hermione forced her mind to go blank, but she was plagued by dreams, nightmares really, of Dolohov’s laughter as he ran from the bathroom.