Captive Memories

by Polydicta


Hermione is missing, and an empty shell has been claimed by Ron as his … plaything. Non-graphic non-consensual sex, kidnapping and torture. Dark Weasley. An experiment in dissimilar writing styles.


All fiction is derivative and fan fiction doubly so. I make no claim to own any part of any of the following, all I have done is an attempt to put together the elements in a novel fashion, using words and ideas like Lego ™ bricks.

There is no money involved – all I do is to share what I do for my own amusement.


Captive Memories


Picture her as she sits in their bedroom, tears trickling down her cheeks.

Look: Her once wild brown hair, now lank and thin. Tangled like a briar thicket, snake-locks of dirty brown.

Observe her broken fingernails, her bloodied hands, as though she has been trying to dig herself out from this room.

Consider those eyes, once bright with life, her amber gaze illuminating the world with her now broken intellect, now turned a dull and muddy hue.

Regard the mind, once afire with the pursuit of knowledge, now hanging in tatters, the rags of a once great mind seeming shattered beyond recall.

Notice the sagging skin on a frame too small for it, the wasted muscles, the bruised flesh, the sagging figure that was once pleasantly full and firm.


The door opens, and a lanky red-haired man enters.

"It's time, Hermione. Time for me to use your boring, slack body."

Her head turns toward him, but she doesn't see.

Roughly, he throws her back onto the bed and, shutting the door, strips off his clothes.

Then he does the unspeakable. Even now she utters no sound but the involuntary noises of air being forced from her lungs.

He finishes and leaves, leaving only a few words of cold comfort.

"He's dead, Hermione, and you're mine."


Inside her head she was screaming, her memories of Harry still burning. She knew that outside the walls that had been erected around her mind life went on. If this could be called life.

Inside the library of her mind, even now, she disbelieved what the red-headed wizard told her.

She was detached from her body, an observer in her fleshly prison.

Harry had been right to teach her to defend her mind so closely, to protect herself from memory charms, but now she was trapped.

The weasel, the man she had once called friend, had disarmed and obliviated her. He was suspicious enough to ensure that the door was well locked, magically and mechanically, and he made certain that she couldn't reach a wand. Even the mindless husk that her body had become wasn't to be trusted by him.

Maybe he wasn't as stupid as he seemed.

She knew that she was dying. He never fed her, and she was permanently filthy unless he scourgified her.

She no longer cared because that would give her release from the torture that was his presence. His endless, unwanted physical attentions.


It is night. There are voices downstairs.

He is down there with his friends. She is laying where he left her.

She is dying slowly of starvation. Maybe it will be tonight.


She could hear voices downstairs. She could hear His voice. Harry's voice.

"Come on, mate, she's gone. Loosen up and get yourself laid!"

"No, Ron, she's out there somewhere, I know she is. I'll wait forever for her. I'll never stop looking."

"She's dead, and you know it."

"No, Ron. I'm still alive and therefore she's still alive. I love her, Ron, more than life itself."

She could feel his love even from here, even through the walls she had so carefully built.

She allowed a tendril of thought, a whisper of hope to escape through her shields.


She felt his awareness.


Harry, I'm trapped. He's keeping me prisoner!


Ronald Bilious Weasel-breath. Help me!

She could feel his anger rising.

"Where is she, Weasley?"

"She's gone to hell, Harry, and well you know it."

She felt him coming for her.


The door opens and a raven-haired man enters. The expression on his face is a picture of horror and misery … and a mixture of relief and, more than anything else, of love.


She sits and her eyes finally swivel to look at him.

He takes a step into the room, and then another.

"She's mine, Potter! I've had her three times daily since I got her! She's all mine, all nicely sealed and legal."

The raven-haired man turns, his wand in his hand. His face is a mask of righteous fury, and vengeful wrath.

"Autocrucius sempera! Silencio sempera!"

The red-haired wizard is flung against the wall, arms outstretched as though nailed to a cross, his mouth moving in apparent screams of agony.

"Ligatorio genitiae!"

The expression on the redhead's face becomes even more agonised, and now panicked as well.

The raven-haired man turns to the woman on the filthy mattress.

"Hermione, love, it's alright, I'm here. It's going to be alright."

He conjures a warm, damp sponge and gently cleans her body. He heals her injuries and her sores. He uses an obscure charm to clean and to untangle her hair.

He removes his robe and wraps it around the woman's emaciated frame.

With love in his eye, he points his wand at her head and whispers, "legilimens."

After a time, he simply says, "resurgio viae memoria."


She drew in her breath sharply as the walls of her memory block came tumbling down. Her thin body heaved as she sobbed into her rescuer's chest.

"H-Harry … I-I'm s-so s-s-sorry."

"Shh, it's all right My Own. It's over now. We're together again."

"B-b-but I-i'm n-n-not a v-v-v …"

Harry hugged her gently. "Yes you are. I promise."

She tried to look up at him to ask the question with her eyes.

"In every way that matters you are. Now, let's get you out of here."

"B-But he forced me to m-marry h-him …"

Shaking his head he summoned her wand to him, and summoned Ron Weasley's.

"It was never registered because it could never be legal."

He pointed his wand at his former friend. "Annexia magicae." Ron Weasley suddenly found his magic gone, taken and given to his captive. His consciousness ebbed as his life-force was drained to heal his victim, as he approached his end … his death … and whatever was to follow.

Out of the room they went: out of the house and away from the man who would, even in death, remain bound, mute and in pain, forever shackled by his overwhelming jealousy.

Telling his wife that once she was well again they would finally have their wedding night and their honeymoon, Harry carried his wife, his Hermione home.