Darkness was a worm in her brain, eating at the white matter inside, annihilating all that she ever was on the way. Darkness was a parasite, feeding off her love and hatred, joy and sadness, and everything she ever felt. Darkness was a hungry beast, never to be full, never to be satisfied. Darkness was a numbing type of pain, the kind that makes it hard to tell whether you're alive or dead. Darkness was a loss of hope, loss of light, loss of meaning.

Darkness was where she found herself. And then the pain came.

Excruciating, blinding, deafening pain. It stung like a thousand needles and burned like a torch close to the skin. Pain was a sea, and she didn't know how to swim. If eternity existed, it did solely to stretch out the pain and the dark. If there was ever hope, there was none for her. If God watched every and all of his creations, he had definitely abandoned her. If hell was real, she was in it.

Time was there somewhere, or maybe only that believed in it, but time was a circle, a snake devouring its tail, an eternal expansion of everything and nothing. She was there somewhere too – she had to believe that. She was the only believer in the religion that was herself. She had to be. Otherwise, she might have disappeared. Gone like smoke. From dust to dust. She believed, therefore she existed.

It was difficult to exist like that. When there was nothing else but that pain and that darkness and that silence. Something was being annihilated inside of her as she floated like that in the space that was not. She had to save that something, protect it—or maybe she was the one supposed to destroy it? Alas. It was happening. She was happening. She believed it.

She was breaking. You promised you wouldn't break. She didn't know why. She was a pencil drawing on white paper and someone was erasing her – the feet, the legs, the sternum, then each of her hands. But her head—

She was sand in an hourglass, bits and pieces of her fell – smoothly, quickly. When all of her had gone down, the hourglass would switch up and she, the sand, would be falling piece by piece, muscle by muscle, bone by bone, blood droplet after blood droplet, to the other side. And again. And again, and again.

She was the drowning island, and she was the ocean waves that were taking increasingly more of the island with every ebb and flow. She, the ocean wave, would burst on the island and drown a piece of it in her depths. She, the island, would try to keep the remaining pieces of herself safe, even knowing that soon she will all be consumed by the waves.

She was an eternity of numbers, being counted, starting at one, but never having an end. Her being was a digit with so many zeros there was not a name yet for that kind of number.

In the beginning was the Word. She didn't know what words were, didn't know what that Word was, but she knew. She was drowning, but now she knew which way to swim. The Word was strange, it was confusing and meaningless, but that was in the beginning.

Hermione. Someone said it. Hermione.

Then there was Light. A Light that battled the Darkness. A Light that battled eternal recurrence, promising a freedom of cessation.

Pain was there still. Although different. A kind of pain that filled her with the knowing that she was alive. A kind of pain that had meaning. Because it was for something. Because it promised a feeling of relief in its absence.

She opened her eyes for the Light and heard the Word being spoken.

"Hermione."

Her eyes fluttered open but she saw everything through a film of fog as if her eyes weren't used to seeing.

"Everybody, leave," the voice commanded.

There were more people. They were now leaving.

"Hermione, can you hear me?"

She realized that the voice was directed to her.

She did not have a voice, she did not know any words yet, so she didn't say anything.

She blinked, once, twice. Her vision cleared. She saw a man in front of her. He had dark hair, a stubble, glasses.

"Hermione, how are you feeling?"

She opened her mouth, grateful to have lips. She breathed in and breathed out, but no sound came out. She tried again.

"Hurts," she gritted out. There it was, her very first word. It perfectly encapsulated her current existence.

"I'll give you some pain potion, it should lessen the pain," the man said. He took a bottle of a yellow potion and reached it out towards her.

She realized she was in a bed. But she couldn't move. So, the man stood up from where he was sitting and helped her up very slightly, enough she could drink the potion. When her body was moved, her muscles spasmed, setting on fire. She hissed in pain, but the man held her head back and she opened her mouth to let him feed her the potion. It was a disgusting drink, but it warmed her up a bit and some of the tension was immediately relieved. Her eyes slid closed. She immediately opened them again, frightened by the darkness she met there.

"Do you know who I am?" the man asked.

She stared at him. She saw him, took in every single detail, but that's how it remained in her head – pieces of puzzle, but never the full picture.

"No," she whispered because shaking her head was too difficult.

The man seemed genuinely concerned, his dark eyebrows drawn together.

"Do you remember who you are?"

She tried to think. But thinking was impossible when she had nothing to conjure a thought with. She could tell him that she was Hermione, because that's how he addressed her, but it could be wrong, so she just repeated, "No."

She studied his face. He turned his head slightly, and a scar that reminded her of lightning glimmered on his forehead.

"You're Harry," she said finally.

He looked at her, eyes glinting.

"What else Hermione?" he asked encouragingly.

"You're my friend."

He nodded with a soft smile as if he didn't dare to fully smile yet.

"Yes. Yes, I am. And you? Do you remember now?"

She frowned, looking down at her hands. There was a silver ring on her left hand's fourth finger. She touched it. The ring was warm, warmer than her skin. It had an emerald eye in the very middle of it, and it seemed to be watching her.

"I'm Hermione," she said, not because he was addressing her like this. "Hermione Granger. I'm a witch."

His eyes were sympathetic.

"Do you remember anything else? It's okay, take your time to think. I don't want to push you. We have all the time in the world."

She took her time. Five minutes turned into ten. The pieces of the puzzle that were herself slowly put themselves into their respective places of the puzzle in her mind.

"You and I, we went to Hogwarts together. It was a school of magic, for witches and for wizards. You and Ron are my best friends."

"What about your parents?" he inquired.

Hermione looked into his eyes, they were green.

"They are muggles. They don't have any magic. But, somehow, they had me. And I'm a witch," she repeated, as if still unable to believe it. "I had to obliviate them when the war started. Delete their memories about me. To protect them."

"What war?" he asked insistently, wanting her to keep going.

"The war with Voldemort. The one we are fighting right now. We are trying to beat him, find all of his horcruxes and destroy them. We still haven't succeeded. But we will."

She believed it. Therefore, it was true.

Harry leaned back in his chair. "The most vital memories about you are present, Hermione, that's very good. But not all of it is true. It used to be, but it's not anymore."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Hermione, what is the last thing you remember?"

She peered into the tapestry wall before her. There was fire, there were hexes thrown from all sides, there was a castle…

"I remember the battle at Hogwarts. We were fighting, we would've won but we couldn't find the last three horcruxes. It was too late by the time the actual fight started. You fought Voldemort, but you knew you weren't going to win, so you escaped. Me and Ron ran with you. Everyone from the Order and the rest in the castle had to run away one by one otherwise they would've been killed. We lost that battle, but it wasn't all lost… Harry, did—did something happen then? Was I hurt and that's why I'm in so much pain? Is that why I can't remember—"

Harry's face darkened with every word she spoke.

"Isn't there anything else you remember? Something more… recent?"

Hermione took the time given to her to turn the pages of her memory book. There was nothing else. Most of the pages were empty. She was euphoric when she found a single page with a sentence, but there was nothing Harry wanted of her. She turned her head to the side, attempting, then aborting a shake.

"Hermione, what you're describing happened almost ten years ago."

She stilled, numbness spreading within her.

"I don't… I don't understand," she spoke in a dead voice.

There wasn't a tool in her head yet to gather and analyze that information.

Harry leaned into her.

"There was a war, that's true, and it was with Voldemort. That war was long and painful, it cost so many lives… Voldemort was killed eventually, but the war didn't end there." Hermione frowned because he didn't say he was the one who killed Voldemort, and that made her wonder who did it.

"You see, someone took his place. Someone even worse, if you can believe it. Evil is systematic after all. No one knows who the new despot is. People call him the Phantom. He is evil and murderous, but unlike Voldemort, I still cannot gather his motivations. I understand it's very confusing for you."

Hermione was frowning so hard her head ached even more.

"I don't remember any of it," she admitted quietly.

Harry's eyes filled with sadness.

"I'm so sorry Hermione. I'm sorry I didn't protect you and this happened to you. You didn't deserve it. The Phantom abducted you to get to me, to find out as much as he could about where I was because he, just like Voldemort, is obsessed with killing me. Do you remember him? Something about him? Anything that could help me identify him and end this war for good?"

She swallowed thickly and thought hard. Cold sweat gathered on her forehead. Her hands shook. Her stomach churned with anxiety. How could she forget such an important thing, an identity of someone who was a threat to her and her friends? How could she just forget it?

"I—I don't know…" she choked out.

"The Phantom had you for more than two years, Hermione. In that time, he managed to do a lot of damage. He tortured you, he raped and manipulated you. He made you believe things that weren't real. I believe that the torture he put you through made you forget everything. But what I believe even more is that he obliviated you once he knew we would come to save you. You were in a comatose state for seven months, Hermione. No one could get to you. No healers or mediwitches could do anything. You weren't dead, but you also weren't here. I think your brain was trying to heal itself from what he did to you."

Hermione heard the words, but it took a while for them to hit home. She realized what he was saying, understood he was talking about her, but the information seemed somehow separate from her, unrelated to her. But that was because she didn't remember. It happened, and it was so painful she forgot.

Hermione's fingers painfully formed into fists. He put his hand on the shaky fists.

"Now you know, but you don't need to worry about any of it. You're safe here. You're home."

That caught her attention. She looked around. They were in a bedroom. She remembered it, but through a fog.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"It's the Order's safehouse now," Harry said. "It's your maternal grandparents' home. Unfortunately, they both died. At the hands of the Phantom. He made it his mission to kill every single person who is your blood relative."

Hermione's insides turned cold. She remembered her grandparents, although very distantly. They were old ten years ago, and now they were supposed to be older. How could someone kill innocent old people?

Only a monster could do that.

"Are my parents alive?" she blurted out in a moment of panic.

"Yes, they are," Harry spoke calmingly. "We are watching over them, keeping them safe. Nothing bad will happen to them."

Hermione sighed with relief, that turned into a sob. She wasn't crying. She didn't know how to cry. It was just a sound.

"I know this is too much to understand right now," Harry said, standing up. "I'll leave you to rest, you need to heal." He put his palm on top of her head. "You're going to be alright, Hermione. I promise."

He was about to leave, but Hermione caught the hand that was touching her hair by the wrist.

"Don't go," she begged. "I don't want to be alone."

He looked back at her, eyebrows rising in surprise.

"I'm quite busy with the Order right now, but you know what, I think Ron would love to see you. He's been terribly worried about you."

Hermione nodded eagerly – anything but that darkness, that pain, that complete emptiness…

Harry left and Ron's red head appeared through the door. Naturally, he looked a lot older than she remembered, and a lot more tired. She hadn't had as much time or stamina to inspect Harry's looks, but Ron looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept in at least a week, there were dark circles under his eyes and his face seemed ashen. He smiled sheepishly at her, as if he wasn't sure how to react.

"Hey, Mione," he greeted her.

"Hi," she answered quietly as Ron sat down where Harry was sitting mere seconds ago.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Everything hurts," she admitted. "It feels like I've been beaten up for days on end. Also, I'm very confused…"

"Harry told me you don't remember practically anything."

She frowned. "When did he tell you that?"

Ron blinked. "Just now, when I passed him. He said the last thing you remember is the Battle of Hogwarts."

Hermione nodded. She shivered uncontrollably.

Ron leaned in, took her hands in his. His palms were warm, hot even, and the warmth they brought into her fingers was nice and comforting, but the feel of his touch was repulsive. She gathered it was normal for a rape victim to feel repulsed by skin-to-skin touch. She pushed through, gritting her teeth. Ron spoke up, and Hermione brought her attention to his voice.

"I was so horribly worried about you when you were away for all those years. I thought the Phantom had killed you, I wouldn't sleep thinking what he was doing to you. Every day I would hope – no, dread – expecting your head in the mailbox. Or one of your limbs. I've been through hell, and even when we got you back, I still believed everything was lost because you weren't waking up. But now you're awake. And that's what matters."

While he spoke, Hermione's eyes slid to their intertwined hands, and she saw the silver ring glitter in the low light. It was now even warmer than Ron's fingers.

"Where did I get this ring from?" she asked.

Ron looked down at the ring too. Then up at her, his blue eyes somewhat darker than she remembered, his red hair somewhat duller.

"I gave it to you. Right before the Phantom took you. I'm surprised to still see it on you, I believed he would've taken it. But even Padma couldn't take it off you when she needed to do the healing charms," he laughed. "It seems your love for me is so great even the ring didn't budge from your finger all those years."

Hermione's mouth went dry. "Did we—did we get married in the time that I don't recall?" she asked almost timidly, fearing the answer.

"Oh, no, we didn't marry," Ron rushed to answer. Immediately after regret appeared in his eyes. "I mean, we didn't marry, the ring was just a gift, but I—I never stopped loving you, Mione, not even after all those years we were apart."

His words made Hermione even more confused. He kept repeating all those years while Harry said she was abducted for only two of them. Of course, for her those two years must've dragged for eternity while she was raped and tortured, away from everyone and everything she loved. It must've been hard for Ron too, not having her by his side…

"I'm sorry I'm asking such silly things," she said, looking up at him. "I just don't know anything, but I want to know…" she apologized.

"Don't worry about it. I understand it is very hard for you. We're both in this together and we're going to get through it together, Mione."

Ron touched her cheek tenderly, but she still flinched from the touch. He slowly retreated his hand.

"You're going to get better, I believe it," Ron said. "You will get the most important memories back, and the all of this will seem just a bad dream."

He finished talking, and Hermione was afraid he was going to leave her alone – she didn't want his touch but she didn't want the solitude in the dark even more, so she asked, "Will you stay with me during the night? I don't want to be alone…"

Ron smiled. "Of course, Mione."

He slipped into the bed beside her but was respectful enough not to touch her. She was exhausted from everything she had figured out. Sleep took her fast, and so did the darkness. She left the light on in the room and that was the only lighthouse for her mind to navigate by.

She believed she would survive this. She believed, therefore she existed.