Hermione woke up twice that night. The first time, woozy and disorientated she could barely make out the dark, heavy furniture and the flickering flames of the candles. The strange surroundings confused her and outside blurry shapes and dancing shadows the only thing she noted was the sterile smell of cleaning spells.

Her head was slightly clearer the second time and before the ever moving hands of Harry stroked her back to sleep to the sound of a crooning melody, she glimpsed iron manacles attached to a corner of the room, gleaming in such a way as to suggest they'd needed a thorough scouring after their last use.

The third time she woke was many hours later and she did not immediately open her eyes. She didn't have too to realise that she was no longer in Harry's bedroom. The soft, velvet cover had been replaced by a hard, damp floor and the familiar feel of cold chains encircled her wrists and ankles. Harry's hands no longer caressed her brow and his strange parseltongue lullaby had been replaced by keening female voice.

Hermione's throat felt like sandpaper, her head like stone and her eyes like shattered glass but the sobs couldn't be ignored. They made the hair on the back of her arms stand on end. It was a sound Hermione knew well. It was the song of pure sorrow and Hermione had sung it far too many times in her short life.

Hermione had experienced enough grief to know that nothing could comfort someone making that sound but she was too kind, too caring to not try. Straining her eyes in the dim light of the dungeon, she faced the corner emitting the pained noise.

Her first whisper was so hoarse as to be inaudible; her second attempt was no less pathetic. It was not until her third slightly louder effort that the keening stopped and with a clanking of the chains the dungeon's other inhabitant crept slightly closer to the light and slightly closer to Hermione.

She was a horrifying sight. Clothed only in silver chains and filthy rags, her bottom half was drenched in dried blood and the arms clutching a bundle to her belly were mutilated by self-inflicted scratches. Her face was swollen with tears and torture, the remains of her hacked off hair sticking up in golden tufts revealing a pale, delicate scalp.

Once this woman was beautiful but under the influence of dirt and despair she was barely recognisable.

Hermione's heart broke into a thousand pieces as recognition finally dawned on her and the pain her own eyes mirrored the pain that inhabited the blonde's. A name fell from cracked lips.

"Fleur?"

Hermione looked closer now, looked at the woman who was once her sister-in-law and always her friend.

And she felt like weeping.

Fleur didn't look at Hermione, though a slight tensing of her grime-streaked shoulders betrayed the fact she'd heard her name. She cuddled her bundle closer and rocked backwards and forwards in a strange inhuman silence.

It was clear to Hermione that it would be down to her to make the first move and despite her aching limbs, she slowly began to crawl closer to Fleur. The seconds stretched into minutes and the minutes seemed to stretch into hours as Hermione's slow dragging progress brought her steadily nearer, until finally she was close enough to lift up her hand and wipe the tears from Fleur's eyes.

To gently tug at the arms circling the bundle wrapped in rags and despite feeble protests from the mad eyed Fleur, remove it from her tightening hands to take a proper look at it.

Hermione's eyes had seen many horrors and every scrap of innocence had long ago been scraped out from her body by Death Eaters. But this, this was something else. If Hermione ever created a list of sights she wished she'd never had to see, this would top it every time.

It was a baby.

The bundle was a small, cold, dead baby.

A tiny little girl whose blue body was draped in filthy rags and her head crowned with a smattering of red hair though whether it was from the Weasleys or the blood that accompanied her into this harsh, uncaring world Hermione could not tell. Her eyes were empty blue and her limbs stiff. Whatever soul, whatever sparks of life that had once inhabited this pathetic body had long disappeared.

Fleur's arms were still outstretched and their emptiness beckoned for the return of the frail baby who never had a chance at life. Looking into her despairing eyes, Hermione could not deny her and gently, ever so gently as if the baby could be woken up by the slightest jolt, Hermione handed the baby back to Fleur who desperately began to cry as she cradled her again.

Hermione heard more sobs echo through the dungeon and it took her a minute to realise these were welling up from her throat. It was too much for her, this blood spattered baby who had clearly entered this world far too early to ever stand a chance at surviving it and the mother who had so fiercely fought for it and even when the war was lost still couldn't quite give up.

Hermione felt an arm wrap itself around her shoulders and realising that Fleur was attempting to give comfort quickly returned the favour to someone who needed and deserved it far more her. Their keening wails mingled into a tragic melody as they mourned.

It seemed an endless eternity before their cries died down, their heads hurting from such a raw, prolonged expression of grief. Exhaustion and sorrow was deeply etched on their faces but they did not yet succumb to sleep.

Instead, with a wordless communication that can only exist between mothers, they separated and began to gather the straw they sat on, creating a pile on the stone floor underneath the single torch.

Fleur took her time with her final goodbye but relinquished her baby freely, nestling it in the soft straw with a promise of love. It was with unspoken agreement that Hermione shuffled towards the torch bearing aloft a single rag to light before passing the flaming cloth onto Fleur.

There was a certain hesitation as Fleur held it but it didn't last long. There was nothing she could do now for her daughter but speed her on to a better place and hope that vengeance would be swift coming.

It took time for the flame to catch hold, the straw was slightly damp and humans do not burn well without outside aid but soon the dungeon was illuminated by fiery colours.

The fire danced on the walls with the shadows and in the eyes of the mothers who watched, both half-mad from grief. Both utterly exhausted.

But the fire was out and the ashes were cold by the time sleep welcomed them into her beckoning arms, hatred still gleaming in their eyes.