Congruent (DM+HG)

2

TW: potential rape, please read with caution

November 24, 1998

There were 3,423 stone tiles on the floor, 164 lines in between the stone slabs. 

Endless amounts of people emitted agonizing  groans, echoing off the hallway.

Hermione didn't know how long it had been. Days, weeks, months, years– it was hard to tell. There were no windows in her cell. The only light emitting from the room was an illumination charm– a small ball hanging from the ceiling. 

The days dragged on excruciatingly slow– each hour felt like a millisecond had passed. Hermione felt as if she were stuck in an hourglass, drowning in the sand that never seemed to stop falling. Each day repeated itself, stuck in the same tortmented time vortex. In other words, she felt like she was living in an indefinite hell.

From what she estimated, food got delivered every six hours– it was inedible, to say the least. Always oatmeal or a piece of bread. On rare occasions, she got grilled rats– only because of her blood class. 

After whatever delicacy-of-the-day was consumed, she would pace about her cell– reciting charms, potions recipes, healing spells– Anything to keep her busy from recalling past traumas. Not that it made a difference, she hardly ever cried. 

Maybe it was the fact she was dehydrated– skin dry and cracked, hair brittle, cotton mouthed. Or was it the fact she grew accustomed to destruction? Watching the bomb slowly tick away at her, imploding from inside– leaving her with an empty void, suffocating every feeling she perceived.

She fought against sleep, dreaded the nightmares that flashed back in her mind. Not that it mattered anyway, her circadian rhythm has been unstable since sixth year. It was constant, unforgiving– replaying the deaths of her friends like a broken record.

Harry, Dumbledore, Tonks, Lupin, Fred, Snape, Dobby, Lavender.

Repeat.

It made her numb, to the point she had no emotion or feeling. Death had become her companion, following her like a shadow– always lurking, waiting to laugh in her face at the pathetic attempt of trying to play God. 

Is this what it truly felt like to be empty? The interior ripped away, leaving the exterior shell of the body soulless– stone cold, a Dementor's Kiss away from being left to rot in eternal doom; watching as her soul gets raked through the mud.

Hermione was angry. She couldn't remember how she got in this cell. The only thing she could recall was Bellatrix forcing Sleeping Draught down her throat.

She dove through her mind, concentrating on the blurry and faint memories.

There were black dots surrounding her vision, a fuzzy light– teetering in out of consciousness. She could feel friction at the bottom of her thighs, slowly being dragged on the ground. A tight magical strand of rope hugging tightly against her arms. 

It was pitch black and raining in the twilight. His ginger hair was striking against the eerie sky– blood splattered across his face as she eyed him from her peripherals. 

"The Dark Lord wants the Mudblood alive. It was stated clearly to me," an unfamiliar male voice whispered out. "As for Weasley, he has something special planned for him." 

A scoff retorted back– a female, she presumed. "Would be better if he killed them both, it's what they deserve." The female turned to face her, she was unable to make out her face from how cloudy her vision was. 

"Maybe we will get to torture them when we get there," his voice hissed out. 

"Yeah right, we have to sit in on trials after this. You know the drill."