Hi, I know my inconsistency for uploading new chapters might discourage some readers, but please be patient with me. I am really trying my best to create this story. Once again, trigger warning for violence, torture, and some gore. Harry Potter characters do not belong to me.

"Apprehended and held without trial,

our friend was sentenced:

brain tumor, malignant.

Condemned each day to wake

and remember."

Blood Honey/Chana Bloch

Droplets of some sort of liquid fall on her head.

The fact that the dungeons are located beneath the ground, combined with the fact that there isn't some sort of ventilating system, creates an overpowering smell that is a mixture between iron and humidity.

Hermione is a blend of sweat, tears, and filth. Now I am the pureblood-textbook image of a filthy little mudblood.

She can feel it again, that annoying drop falls once again in her head.

One more minute and it will fall again.

This time Hermione looks up, and lets it land on her face. The slippery drop falls between her eyes and slides along her nose and into her mouth. She gladly takes it in her tongue, until she identifies the taste, and spits it out.

It is blood. Human or animal is unknown. Darkness doesn't let her identify the owner.

Something or someone is hanging in the ceiling bleeding all over her.

Bellatrix has really outdone herself this time.

Hermione can feel the laboured breaths coming in uneven rhythm. Her palms are sweating, and her heart seems to be about to jump out of her chest. Breathe Hermione. You have to breathe. She tries to repeat her mantra inside her head, but the blood keeps falling down, and Hermione is losing control. Panic attacks are not foreign to her. She had them since she was a little girl. She would always repeat a catchy little phrase to calm down. But it doesn't work anymore.

My name is Hermione Jean Granger. I lived in Hampstead. My favorite colors are red and silver. I am a Griffyndor. My friends are Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. We must kill Voldemort. We are fugitives. We are soldiers. We are going to die. I am going to die…

The more she tries to keep repeating her mantra, the more distorted it becomes.

Hermione closes her eyes, and imagines those wooden dusty coffins in her mind. She has to push her fear inside a new box. The wooden piece seems to be opposed to the amount of information that is being forced in its interior. The lid resists being shut. She must compartmentalize her emotions. Shutter the pain. Shutter your weaknesses. In moments like this, Hermione has total appreciation for her initiative to learn Occlumency. It wasn't a topic included in Hogwarts' curriculum, but as inquisitive as she has always been, she learned it all by herself. Shutter the pain. She tries to picture all of her fear inside the coffin.

This is another part of torture. She must endure, or they will win. And in their world Hermione must be exterminated.

Sixth Year

Harry has been particularly interested in obsessing over Malfoy. Such a strong surveillance over pathetic, whiny Draco Malfoy. Surely, if Voldemort is recruiting new Death Eaters, he wouldn't pick Malfoy. He is a nobody, of course, a nobody with an important surname, but that's it. He is young, moody, and useless. He lacks the courage and guts to do Voldemort's dirty work. But Harry hasn't been listening to reason. He is obsessed.

And she has been wasting time drooling with heartbreak for Ronald. Hermione had thought there had been a spark, maybe even a two-sided crush, but after the quidditch match, Ron had glued himself to Lavender Brown. Well, better late than never, she wouldn't waste anymore time with Ron.

War was approaching. She knew it, and she felt sadness in her heart. Her joy and optimism would be ripped out of her heart. They had so little time to remain young and innocent, but it would all be destroyed. She couldn't bear to think of all the remaining sacrifices Harry would have to make. He would be the one who would lose everything, and he still had to be willing to save them all. Hermione had been trying to do everything to support him, to be there for him in the darkest hours, but he often isolated himself to protect them from harm.

In between school love, nemesis obsession, and exams, Hermione knew war was approaching. And she also knew that they would all lose themselves in the midst of the battle.

There is a commotion outside of the dungeons. Hermione can hear voices outside. They are agitated and angry. There is hardly any movement outside of her cell on a daily basis, but today something bad must have happened. She comes closer to the wall, and puts her ear on the wall. Although, the stone walls are thick, there is a kind of vibrating resonance to the voices.

"Quickly Dolohov! The Dark Lord is not happy and if we take too long he will use us as an example of punishment"

"No wonder he is enraged, those stupid boys blew up half of our camp in Bristol. They are growing more reckless by day"

"And that's exactly the problem. They shouldn't be confident enough to attack our army. They should be afraid of us and bending to our will, but they are so foolhardy these days"

"Wouldn't worry too much Yaxley. We are stronger"

"You idiot! That's not the point, the Dark Lord doesn't want to waste time and resources on these attacks. They shouldn't be happening. We are failing"

"Let those boys come. We are more vicious. Sure would love to squash some Weasleys"

"Get in your stupid head that we are not to have any rebellion. But they feel so assured with Harry Potter among them. That boy is naive and insignificant, if it wasn't for the prophecy we wouldn't be subjected to endure fighting with stupid teenagers."

"Do you wonder if they want to retrieve their mudblood?"

"Shut up! She could be listening and we don't want her to get any hope in that head of hers. Open the door. We have to bring this halfblood for questioning."

Hermione listens to the spell and then the door of the adjacent cell clicks open. Someone is dragged across the floor. She can hear whimpers and fabric lug through the stone ground.

The footsteps grow distant and Hermione is left with small peeks of information. The Order, or the rebellion, is going strong or at least making significant damage to death eaters camps.

She is smiling.

Voldemort is starting to get worried. That's good.

Harry is still alive. Ron has been keeping his promise. Hermione is eight feet below the ground, but, for once in months, there is a spark of joy in heart.

There once was a prophecy of a boy strong enough to defeat a Dark Lord.

This boy shall suffer in mind and blood. The master shall pay in soul.

Pain would cross their bond, and upon the white light, their destiny would converge in one.

There once was a prophecy about a boy who would end up all alone. All around his white knights would stumble under the sword of black knights.

The master would feel rage in his blood, and the boy would get contaminated by the perpetrator's fury.

Water lilies would strangle their throats and drown them in despair.

There once was a prophecy of greed and envy.

Master and boy would share body and ghost.

Both would be obliged to go down a path by a twinkling eye.

There was once a prophecy about a boy and a Dark Lord who would get wrapped up inside the divine thread of a mastermind manipulator. Both abandoned and without a home. Their shelter shall be magic.

Snakes would crawl on limbs and their tongues would clarify the grey mist of lies and betrayal.

There once was a prophecy made by the gods above. They stood and watched. They played and gambled. Two boys alike shall be the players, and the prize is the unknown touch of downfall.

The gods would have the playfield on their view, but the prophecy was not made by them. A little blue transparent orb arrived at their temple pushed by the chilling air of September.

The wind carried the creator's name, and the wind retreated the truth from their ears.

There once was a prophecy picked up by gods above. A prophecy of two boys with pitch black shelter, and galaxies pooling in their eyes.

There was once a prophecy threaded by a pair of mysterious hands.

A prophecy of a boy and a Dark Lord clashing between green emblems of nature.

There once was a prophecy of boys being led to Death.

War would break across the land. Murder would become the new punishment. And Power would be glimpsed in the aftermath.

Bloodied roads.

Grey skies.

Brawls of multicolor spells.

There once was a prophecy of a boy strong enough to defeat a Dark Lord.

And Death shall be sitting down along the river with a bouquet of water lilies in hand, waiting for the current to bring closer the prophecy of boy and master.

Author's Note: I was trying to make this chapter longer but I couldn't. I'm sorry. How do you feel about the characters and the different-shades-of-grey perspectives? Is the story too boring at this point?