By Royal Decree
Hermione (Present)
The dark circular room pressed in on her, the smooth, cold stone walls seeming to mock her with their impenetrability. Windows lined the curved walls, but they offered no view, only a reflection of her own frustrated fury. Stripped down to her underclothes, she paced like a caged animal, the rage bubbling within her threatening to boil over. They had dared to snatch her from her life, from Pita, and for what? To be paraded around like a prized pony for some spoiled prince? The very thought sent a wave of nausea through her.
She had no desire to be a princess, no interest in marrying into a family that perpetuated this system of oppression and inequality. The only thing in the world that meant anything to her was Pita. The thought of her, alone and vulnerable, sent a shiver of fear down her spine. How would Pita survive without her, without someone to protect her, to provide for her?
A guttural roar ripped from her throat, echoing off the unforgiving walls. She launched herself at the windows, pounding her fists against the impenetrable glass, her frustration and fear fueling her desperate need to break free, to return to her sweet Pita. But the windows held firm. She was trapped, alone, and utterly powerless.
Memories of another time, another imprisonment, flashed through her mind. She was four years old, snatched from the warmth of her bed in the dead of night, ripped away from the loving embrace of her parents and taken to the wizarding slums against her will. The slums had become her prison, a harsh, unforgiving world where survival was the only currency that mattered. She had learned to steal, to fight, to bury her fear and vulnerability beneath a shell of hardened resilience. Tears for her lost parents, for the life stolen from her, had long since dried up. Weakness was a luxury she couldn't afford.
She had spent years trying to escape, her small legs carrying her for miles, only to be met with an invisible barrier, an impenetrable wall that shocked her unconscious with its cruel magic. She was trapped, just like all the other souls condemned to this desolate existence. And now, this. Another prison, another attempt to strip her of her freedom, her agency, her very identity. But Hermione Granger would not be broken. She would find a way out, for herself, and for Pita. A fire of defiance burned within her soul, a flickering light in the suffocating darkness.
She thrashed and raged against her confinement until her body ached and her voice grew hoarse. But her cries remained unanswered, swallowed by the thick stone walls and the suffocating silence of the room. Exhausted and defeated, she sank onto the cold floor, her anger simmering beneath her skin. Hours crawled by, each minute a blow to her frayed nerves. Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hallway, jolting her back to reality. She sprang to her feet, schooling her expression, mimicking the wide-eyed innocence of the other witches she had encountered during her journey to the palace.
The heavy door swung inward, and she flinched dramatically, feigning a fear she didn't feel. The rage still burned within her, a white hot ember threatening to ignite.
A tall figure emerged from the shadows, his dark robes and clothing contrasting his shock of platinum blond hair. She recognized him instantly. Prince Draco Lucius Malfoy. Stories of his beauty were whispered throughout the slums, and even she, who scoffed at such frivolous concerns, couldn't deny the striking elegance of his features. His face was all sharp angles and aristocratic lines, his eyes a mesmerizing shade of silver that seemed pool and swirl around his pupils.
He moved with a grace, his gaze sweeping over her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. His eyes widened slightly as they took in her near naked form, his full lips parting in surprise.
Hermione, playing the role of the meek, submissive girl, averted her gaze and covered herself with her hands, though in truth, she cared little for her state of undress. It was a mere inconvenience, a temporary indignity compared to the violation of her freedom.
The prince let out an exasperated sigh, his eyes rolling towards the ceiling. "Why isn't she clothed?" he asked, his voice laced with irritation.
"We thought this would be best for the appraisals, " a distant voice boomed in response, echoing through the room. Hermione couldn't pinpoint the source; it seemed to emanate from the very walls themselves.
Draco scoffed. "Please ensure that the other witches are appropriately covered before I meet with them." He turned back to her, his gaze softening slightly. "And someone get her a blanket, for fuck’s sake."
He approached her slowly, his silver eyes studying her with a curiosity that made her skin crawl. She let her arms fall to her sides, feigning a vulnerability she didn't feel. Goosebumps erupted across her exposed skin as a shiver ran through her. Draco, noticing her discomfort, drew his wand and cast a warming charm around her. A wave of heat enveloped her, chasing away the chill. Hermione, who had rarely witnessed wand magic, felt a flicker of awe despite herself.
"What happened to your face?" He asked, his head tilting slightly as he examined her bruises.
She reached up, gently touching her swollen eye, and winced theatrically. "I am sorry I couldn't be more beautiful for you today," she murmured, her voice a carefully crafted blend of innocence and regret.
His eyes narrowed, his gaze unwavering. She felt a surge of panic, convinced he saw through her facade. But how could he? She had perfected the art of deception, honed it into a weapon against the harsh realities of the slums. Yet, there was something in his intense scrutiny that made her doubt her own abilities. It was as if he could see into her very soul, piercing the layers of carefully constructed lies to expose the defiant spirit burning within.
"Do you like this one, my boy? You have lingered for some time, " the mysterious voice echoed through the room, its tone a blend of amusement and impatience.
Draco, however, seemed oblivious to the interruption, his silver eyes still locked on hers.
The booming voice continued, its words laced with a hint of disapproval. "Although I know the council and my vote doesn't hold as much weight as yours, I would really like to have heirs with light eyes, light hair if we were so lucky. This witch has brown eyes and dark hair, dominant traits, I worry she will overpower your features."
Without breaking eye contact with her, Draco murmured, "I think they are quite beautiful."
He reached out, his long fingers gently twirling a lock of her dark, unruly hair. He seemed mesmerized, completely captivated by her. Perfect , she thought, pressing her advantage. She took a tentative step towards him, bowing her head slightly in a gesture of submission. She felt his fingers slide beneath her chin, tilting her face upwards to meet his gaze. His touch sent a shiver through her, and she suppressed the urge to recoil, leaning into his touch instead, her eyes wide and innocent.
His gaze swept over her face, lingering on the bruises that marred her delicate skin. A flicker of concern crossed his features, quickly replaced by a mask of cool indifference. He traced a long finger down her cheek, the touch sending a wave of new goosebumps across her skin. She fought to maintain her composure, her inner turmoil masked by a carefully crafted expression of vulnerability.
"You seem…different from the others," Draco finally said, his voice a low rumble that sent a tremor through her. “Your eyes…”
"I am merely grateful for your kindness, Your Highness," she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. "It is an honor to be considered for the... selection."
Draco's lips curled into a wry smile. "An honor?" he echoed, his voice laced with skepticism. "Or a prison?"
Her breath hitched. He was testing her, probing her defenses. She had to be careful, choose her words wisely.
"I... I do not know what the future holds," she stammered, feigning uncertainty. "But I am prepared to serve the crown, to fulfill my duty, whatever it may be."
Draco's eyes narrowed, his gaze unwavering. He was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to her surprise, he chuckled, a low, throaty sound.
"You are a curious creature," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "I look forward to unraveling your secrets."
He traced the seam of her lips with his finger and she slowly opened her mouth. His eyes widened with shock as she took his entire finger into her mouth and sucked. He seemed momentarily stunned by her braizeness, and she knew it was now or never. She sank her teeth into his finger with all her might, the taste of salt and blood filling her mouth as he hissed in pain. He recoiled as if stung, yanking his hand away like she was a venomous viper. With a surge of adrenaline, she whipped her head back and then snapped it forward, her forehead connecting squarely with the bridge of his nose. A sickening crack echoed in the room as he staggered backward, clutching his face in agony.
She didn't hesitate. She sprinted towards the door, flinging it open and plunging into the dimly lit hallway. The pounding of his boots on the stone floor reverberated behind her, but she pushed herself harder, ignoring the searing pain in her lungs and the way her legs screamed for rest.
The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, the darkness swallowing the exit. Just as despair began to set in, she slammed into a wall, the abrupt halt sending a jolt of pain through her already battered body. Trapped. She spun around, fists clenched, ready to fight to the bitter end. But instead of her pursuer, she found herself facing six figures, their faces grim, their wands glowing menacingly in the gloom.
The air crackled with an unnatural energy, a sound like shattering glass, and then he was there, the prince, materializing from thin air directly in front of her. Blood streamed from his nose, a crimson waterfall that flowed over his lips, staining his teeth a grotesque red. His face was contorted not in pain, but in a mask of chilling fascination.
She had braced herself for fury, for the icy blast of his rage, the sting of his disgust. But there was none of that. Instead, his eyes glittered with an almost predatory hunger. They roamed over her, lingering on every detail, as if he were memorizing her, savoring every inch of her. He wasn't angry, no, not at all. This was something far more sinister. He was captivated, enthralled, like a predator who had stumbled upon unexpected prey.
Hermione (Two days earlier)
"Pita!" Hermione's voice echoed through their cozy cabin, a note of warmth and relief softening the rough edges of her calloused tone. "Pita, I have food for us!"
A whirlwind of energy burst around the corner, Pita's small frame practically vibrating with excitement. Hermione laid the plump rabbit she had snared earlier on their worn wooden table, a sense of satisfaction settling in her chest.
"Hello, my love," she said, pulling Pita into a tight embrace, the scent of pine needles and damp earth clinging to the girl's unruly curls. "What have you been up to today?"
"Well," Pita began, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm, "I was doing some cleaning, and then I drew you this!" She presented a piece of parchment with a flourish, her eyes sparkling with pride.
Hermione's heart swelled with affection. Despite being only twelve, Pita possessed remarkable artistic talent, her drawings transforming the bare walls of their isolated cabin into a vibrant gallery of their life together.
"It's beautiful, Pita, thank you," Hermione said, her gaze lingering on the detailed depiction of herself and Pita standing hand in hand in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.
It had been just the two of them for a long time. Hermione had found Pita abandoned on the streets when Pita was just five, a tiny, emaciated figure clinging to life. The sight of the lost, frightened child had stirred something deep within Hermione, a painful echo of her own lonely childhood. Though not blood related, they shared a striking resemblance, their dark, curly hair and expressive brown eyes a mirror image of each other. Hermione had brought Pita to her secluded cabin, a hidden haven within the depths of the Forbidden Forest, and they had been inseparable ever since.
"Are you hungry?" Hermione asked, carefully pinning the drawing to the wall, adding it to their ever growing collection.
"Yes!" Pita exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Can we cook outside tonight?"
"Sure," Hermione agreed with a smile. "Can you go start a fire?"
"Yes!" Pita shouted, her voice filled with delight as she dashed out the door, her laughter trailing behind her like a fluttering ribbon.
Hermione retreated to the small washroom, a sense of weariness settling over her as she splashed cold water on her face. The reflection staring back mirrored the harsh realities of their life. Her lip was split, a souvenir from a recent brawl in the underground fighting rings, and her left eye was swollen nearly shut. They had run out of dittany, the precious healing herb, and Hermione couldn't justify spending their meager earnings on herself when Pita needed new clothes and shoes. The fighting rings were a brutal necessity, a way to provide for Pita, but each victory came at a cost.
Pita burst back into the cabin, a crumpled piece of parchment clutched in her hand.
"What's that?" Hermione asked, curiosity piqued.
"I don't know!" Pita replied, her voice laced with a hint of concern. "I was hoping you could read it." She handed the parchment to Hermione.
"I want you to try," Hermione encouraged, leading Pita to their small dining table.
Pita smoothed the parchment on the table and began to sound out the words, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"By... roy-al... de-cree... all... half-blood..." Pita paused, her gaze seeking reassurance from Hermione.
"Keep going, you're doing amazing, little one," Hermione said, her voice filled with pride.
"...and... Mud-blood..." Pita frowned, stumbling over the derogatory term.
"...witch-es... eight-teen and... older... are... to... re-port... to... their... sol-dier... stay-shuns... this... eve-ning," Pita finished, her voice a mixture of triumph and confusion.
Hermione gently took the royal announcement from Pita's small hands, her own brow furrowing as she reread the decree. Confusion gave way to a growing sense of unease.
"Hermione, that's you! Are you going to go?" Pita asked, her voice laced with worry.
"Absolutely not," Hermione declared, forcing a smile. "We have a feast to prepare."
Later that night, their bellies full of roasted rabbit and wild berries, Hermione and Pita curled up in their small bed. Hermione stroked Pita's hair gently, love radiating from her heart. As Pita drifted off to sleep, her small hand clutching Hermione's, a wave of protectiveness washed over Hermione. The royal decree weighed heavily on her mind, a dark cloud threatening their peaceful existence. She would have to lay low for a while and pray that the prying eyes of the royal family wouldn't find them. She couldn't risk losing Pita, her precious, innocent Pita, to whatever sinister plot they were brewing.
****
The morning sun cast long shadows across the ramshackle buildings as Hermione and Pita ventured into the heart of the slums, their destination the village market. Hermione winced with each step, the broken cobblestones digging into the worn soles of her shoes. Gaping holes exposed her heels and toes to the grime and grit, but years of neglect had calloused her feet, and the discomfort barely registered anymore.
The dilapidated buildings loomed over them like skeletal giants. Hermione had heard whispers of the village's vibrant past, a time when it bustled with witches and wizards making day trips from Hogwarts, back when the palace was a school, not a seat of tyrannical power. Now, the once charming storefronts were mere shells of their former selves, their windows boarded up or shattered, their paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The air hung heavy with the stench of decay and despair, a contrast to the fresh scent of pine and damp earth that clung to Pita's worn woolen cloak.
As they navigated the narrow, trash strewn alleyways, Hermione felt the predatory gazes of men, both young and old, following their every move. She instinctively pulled Pita closer, shielding her against their leering eyes. Hermione’s own innocence had been stolen far too young, and a fierce determination burned within her to shield Pita from the same fate.
Finally, they reached their destination: a small, cluttered stall overflowing with mismatched shoes and boots. A warm smile spread across Hermione's face as she saw the stall's owner, a kind faced woman with twinkling hazel eyes.
"Maggie!" Pita squealed, breaking free from Hermione's grasp and rushing towards the woman.
"Hello, my dears!" Maggie exclaimed. She enveloped Pita in a warm embrace, her laughter echoing through the market.
"Hi, Maggie," Hermione said, joining them with a grateful smile. "Pita here is in desperate need of a new pair of sturdy shoes."
"I think I have just the thing!" Maggie declared, reaching beneath her stall and pulling out a pair of beautifully crafted leather boots. They were supple and strong, with intricate stitching and sturdy soles, a world away from the ragged footwear most children in the slums wore.
Hermione's heart sank. "Oh, Maggie, I don't think we have enough for those today," she said, her voice laced with regret.
"These ones are on me, my darlings," Maggie insisted, kneeling before Pita and gently untying her worn out shoes. "A growing girl needs proper footwear, and these will keep her feet warm and dry through the winter."
Hermione's eyes welled with tears. Maggie had always been there for them, a beacon of kindness in a world that often felt cold and cruel. She was the closest thing to a mother Hermione had known, her unwavering support a lifeline in their darkest hours.
"Thank you, Maggie," Hermione whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the far end of the market, shattering the momentary peace. Hermione's head snapped up, her eyes scanning the swirling dust that obscured the source of the disturbance. A moment later, a large, ornate wagon burst through the haze, followed by six more, each drawn by unseen magic. They thundered down the narrow street, their wheels kicking up dust and debris. Hermione quickly pulled Maggie and Pita behind the stall, her heart pounding with a sense of dread.
Peeking through a gap in the rotting wood, she saw that the wagons were filled with young witches, their faces etched with smiles, their eyes filled with a mixture of anticipation and joy. The wagons made a sharp turn, heading towards the palace, and Hermione felt a chill run down her spine.
"Pita, grab your boots, let's go," she whispered, urgency lacing her voice. She pulled Pita to her feet, her grip firm but gentle.
"Thank you, Maggie," she called out to the woman, who was still peering cautiously from behind the stall. "Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?"
"Yes, dear, that would be lovely," Maggie replied, "I'll bring that pie you love so much."
Hermione smiled gratefully, before tucking Pita securely under her arm. They melted into the shadows, their footsteps silent as they hurried back towards the sanctuary of the Forbidden Forest, leaving the village and its ominous whispers behind.
They had nearly reached the treeline, the promise of the forest's sanctuary within grasp, when a gruff voice sliced through the quiet morning air.
"HEY! You there!" a soldier barked, his words echoing ominously through the deserted street.
"Pita, run!" Hermione hissed, shoving the young girl towards the shadows of the trees. She turned to face their pursuer, her heart pounding against her ribs.
Pita, paralyzed by fear, didn't move. She stood frozen by Hermione's side, her eyes wide with terror.
The soldier, a tall wizard with long, gray hair tied back from his weathered face, strode towards them, his black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze raking over Hermione with an unsettling intensity, lingering on her torn clothes and bruised face with a disturbing mix of disdain and disgust.
"How old are you?" he demanded, his voice rough.
"Seventeen," Hermione blurted out, the lie escaping her lips before she could stop it.
The soldier's eyes narrowed, suspicion etched into his furrowed brow. "You don't look seventeen," he growled, his gaze hardening. From behind him, more soldiers emerged from the shadows, their faces grim, their wands clutched tightly in their hands. Hermione and Pita were surrounded.
"You there!" the soldier bellowed across the street, beckoning a middle aged man Hermione recognized with a sinking feeling. Frederick, a notorious gossip and coward, was the last person she wanted vouching for her. "How old is this witch?"
Frederick, his eyes darting nervously between the soldier and Hermione, stammered, "I believe she's nineteen, possibly eighteen."
The soldier turned back to Hermione, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face. Hermione felt Pita trembling beside her, and she gave her a reassuring squeeze.
"What do you think, lads?" the soldier asked his comrades, his smile widening.
"She looks a bit wild to me," one of the younger soldiers offered, his freckled face and kind eyes stood out against the others.
"Great tits," another sneered, eliciting a chorus of crude laughter. Hermione glared at them, her fury barely contained.
"Come on, miss, you're coming with us," the lead soldier said, reaching for her wrist.
Resistance was futile. Outnumbered and desperate to protect Pita, she allowed herself to be captured. She looked down at Pita, her heart breaking at the sight of tears streaming down the girl's innocent face.
"I will be fine, my love," she whispered, forcing a reassuring smile. "I will be back before dinner. Go to the cabin and wait for me. Make sure you are not followed."
Pita nodded, her small body shaking with sobs.
Two soldiers grabbed Hermione's wrists, their grip bruising, and dragged her towards a waiting carriage.
"Watch it!" she hissed, her voice laced with venom. "I am not resisting."
The carriage door swung open, and she was roughly shoved inside. As she landed on the plush seat, she found herself staring into six pairs of wide, fascinated eyes. One of the witches, a delicate blonde with dainty hands, scooted over to make more room for her.
Hermione stared out the window as the carriage lurched forward, her last glimpse of Pita a heart wrenching image of the young girl huddled in the dirt, her small hands covering her face as her body shook with uncontrollable sobs. She quietly tried the handle, but the carriage was locked from the outside. She resisted the urge to kick through the door. She needed to keep a level head, to escape when she wouldn't be noticed. She took deep steadying breaths and closed her eyes.
The journey was filled with a nervous chatter that grated on Hermione's nerves.
"I hope he's as handsome as he looks on the posters," a curvy girl with auburn hair and a deep purple dress mused.
Hermione noticed that all the women in the carriage were clean and well dressed, their hair neatly styled, she stuck out like a sore thumb with her disheveled appearance. Confusion gnawed at her.
"Oh, he will be," another witch gushed. "I saw him in person once. He's very powerful too. A very skilled Legilimens, I've heard."
Their excited chatter continued, until finally, she couldn't take it anymore.
"What in the actual fuck is going on?" she interrupted, her voice sharp.
Six startled faces turned towards her. "You don't know?" the blonde beside her asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Hermione shook her head.
"The prince is going to take a bride," the blonde explained. "A Mudblood or Half-blood, obviously. Hundreds of witches are headed to the palace from the slums for his selection. I've heard there will be a series of tasks, tests... This is someone's ticket out of the slums."
"A chance to be royalty!" another witch chimed in, her voice brimming with an almost manic excitement.
Hermione felt bile rising in her throat. Forced servitude disguised as a fairytale. It was sickening.
"What if we don't want any part of this selection?" she asked, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage.
"I am afraid we don't have a choice," the blonde whispered, her eyes filled with a chilling acceptance.
Hermione's gaze drifted back towards the window as the carriage navigated a sharp bend in the road. The journey had stretched on for what felt like an eternity, and the sun was finally beginning its descent, painting the landscape with long, dramatic shadows. As they drew closer to the castle, a stark transformation in the surroundings became evident.
Gone were the ramshackle huts, the overflowing rubbish piles, and the gaunt, hollow-eyed figures that haunted the impoverished outskirts. In their place stood elegant houses with manicured lawns, their windows gleaming in the fading light. The streets were impeccably clean, paved with smooth cobblestones that shimmered like polished gemstones.
Pure-blood children, their laughter echoing through the crisp air, chased each other across the lawns, their faces flushed with joy. The vibrant colors of their robes contrasted sharply with the drabness of the slums Hermione had left behind. She caught glimpses of figures soaring through the air on broomsticks, their carefree movements a cruel reminder of the constraints of her own upbringing. Others lounged in comfortable chairs on their porches, basking in the last vestiges of the day's warmth.
A wave of nausea rose in her throat, threatening to spill over. It wasn't just the disparity between their world and hers; it was the casualness of their happiness, the obliviousness to the suffering that existed just beyond their manicured hedges. How could they be so content, so carefree, when she had spent her childhood scavenging for scraps in overflowing bins, her stomach gnawing with hunger? The injustice of it all burned within her, a fiery ember of resentment threatening to ignite into a raging inferno.
They rounded another corner and the palace came into view, its grandeur taking her breath away. It was a magnificent structure, its towering spires reaching towards the heavens, its walls gleaming with an iridescent sheen that shifted and shimmered in the fading light. Gardens, bursting with exotic flowers and shimmering fountains, surrounded the castle, creating an oasis of beauty and serenity.
The carriage shuddered to a halt, the abrupt stop sending Hermione tumbling against the plush seat. The doors flew open, revealing a scene of bustling chaos. Rough hands grasped her arms, yanking her out onto the cobblestones and propelling her towards the imposing palace entrance. She found herself swept into a sea of anxious faces – hundreds of young witches, their eyes wide, surrounded by stern faced soldiers who barked orders and shoved the girls into formation.
Hermione, barely able to register the grandeur of the palace facade, was herded into the grand hall, its sheer size and opulence momentarily stealing her breath. Marble columns soared towards a vaulted ceiling adorned with glittering chandeliers, and intricate tapestries depicting scenes of mythical battles and triumphant heroes lined the walls. But there was no time to appreciate the splendor. With ruthless efficiency, the soldiers began pairing off the witches, each girl assigned to a specific soldier who then whisked her away down seemingly endless corridors.
Hermione found herself linked to the freckled, red-haired soldier from the village. He avoided her gaze as they marched in silence, the echoing footsteps and hushed whispers of the other witches fading as they delved deeper into the palace's depths.
Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "What's your name?"
Hermione, her jaw clenched, refused to acknowledge him.
"My name is Ron," he persisted, a hint of desperation in his tone. "Ron Weasley."
She remained silent, her eyes fixed on the corridor ahead.
With a sigh of defeat, Ron led her towards a heavy oak door, its dark wood and imposing iron hinges were less than welcoming. He opened it with a creak, revealing a stark, dimly lit room. A single table draped with a white sheet stood in the center, casting eerie shadows across the bare stone walls. As they stepped inside, a stout woman with a severe expression materialized from the darkness, her presence casting a chill over the already frigid room.
Ron lingered for a moment, his gaze meeting Hermione's with a flicker of something like sympathy, before he closed the door behind him, leaving her alone with the imposing woman.
"Time for your medical examination!" the woman announced, her voice surprisingly cheerful, a jarring contrast to the sterile coldness of the room.
Hermione's fist instinctively clenched at her side, a surge of defiance rising within her.
"Please disrobe and put this gown on," the woman instructed, thrusting a flimsy garment towards Hermione.
"I think not," Hermione retorted, her voice laced with defiance.
The woman's smile faltered, replaced by a look of annoyance. "How funny," she sneered, "you think you have a choice in the matter?"
Hermione stepped forward, her fists clenched, ready to fight. But before she could make a move, the woman's wand was in her hand, its tip pointed directly between Hermione's eyes. The last thing Hermione saw before the world went black was the woman's triumphant smirk and a cruel glint in her eyes.
Hermione awoke with a gasp, her head pounding like a drum. Disoriented and disheveled, she found herself sprawled on a cold stone floor in a dimly lit circular room, its walls lined with darkened windows. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp stone and antiseptic, sending a shiver down her spine. Her fingers instinctively traced the rough edges of her worn undergarments, the only barrier between her skin and the chilling air. Panic clawed at her throat, but she forced it down, her mind racing, trying to piece together the fragments of her memory. The medical examination, the stern-faced woman, the flash of the wand... and then, nothing.
She scrambled to her feet, her bare legs brushing against the cold stone. The room was eerily empty. A heavy wooden door, the only exit. She pushed and pulled at the door, but it didn’t budge. She pressed her ear against the cold wood, straining to hear any sounds beyond, but only silence greeted her.
Her eyes darted around the room, searching for any clue, any weapon, anything that could aid her escape.
As she stood there, her heart pounding in her chest, a wave of dizziness washed over her, and a strange tingling sensation spread through her limbs. The room seemed to tilt, the stone floor swaying beneath her feet. She stumbled, her vision blurring, and a wave of nausea rose in her throat. Whatever that woman had done to her, it was more than a simple Stunning Spell. She sank to her knees, the cold stone biting into her skin, her world fading in and out of focus. The darkness was closing in, and a sense of dread washed over her, threatening to extinguish her defiant spirit. She had to stay conscious. Her rage was the only thing keeping her upright. She made a silent vow. Whoever walked through that door, whoever dared to cross her path, would come to regret it. She would escape this mess, if not for herself, then for Pita.