There was a crack somewhere in the camp. It may have been a whip, or the snapping of bone. Hermione had conditioned herself to be dully immune to such things. She'd protested once before, when they first moved here, begged Ron to soundproof the house at the very least. To keep them from hearing the misery outside. He'd punched her in the face for her insolence. These were the sounds of victory, of justice, he'd insisted. Then he locked her in the Black Room for two days without food. Or light. And just a canteen of stagnant water for sustenance, still there from her last stay.