She didn't know when the torture stopped, or if she ever gave them information. All she felt was her body hit the cell floor sharply and the cold encapsulated her as her wet hair and clothing clung to her body.

Hermione stirred, her body cold and aching from the hard stone floor beneath her. The dungeon felt darker than usual, its grimy walls closing in, suffocating. Her eyes fluttered open, trying to adjust to the dim light. Her muscles screamed with every small movement, and for a moment, she forgot where she was, her mind fogged by the relentless torment she had endured.

The familiar, dull ache in her arm brought her back to reality. Mudblood, carved into her skin like a brand. She winced, but the pain was nothing compared to the sharp terror that lingered in her mind—the water, the suffocating cold, Bellatrix's laughter echoing in her ears.

As her vision cleared, she saw him.

Draco Malfoy's blond hair, tousled and dirtied from his own suffering, was the first thing she noticed. His back was to her, his body curled up tightly on the narrow cot as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible. Hermione's pulse slowed, just slightly, seeing him there. It was a strange sort of comfort, knowing she wasn't completely alone.

He didn't move. Hermione wasn't sure if he was asleep or merely pretending to be. His form was rigid, and even from this angle, she could see how tense his shoulders were. He was withdrawn, closed off, as if he were hiding within himself.

Hermione tried to move, but her limbs were heavy, uncooperative. She could barely lift her head, let alone make it to her own cot. The cold had seeped into her bones, and every inch of her body felt numb. All she could do was lie there, staring at the dark ceiling, wondering how much longer she could endure this. She wasn't sure how long they lay in that awful silence—minutes, hours, maybe even days.

Time no longer made sense here.

The only real sense of time she had was when the door to the basement swung open, and the sound of heels clicked against the stone stairs, descending slowly. The sound was deliberate, each step echoing ominously, as if whoever was coming wanted them to hear—wanted them to know they were coming.

Hermione's heart clenched, her body stiffening. She forced her eyes toward the door, her breath quickening as the footsteps grew closer. Draco didn't move, but Hermione could feel his tension increase, as if he, too, was bracing himself for whatever was about to come.

The figure reached the bottom of the stairs, stepping into the dim light cast by the single, flickering torch mounted on the wall.

Narcissa malfoy

Narcissa Malfoy stood at the bottom of the stairs, her cold gaze fixed on her son's huddled figure. The dim light flickered against her pale skin, casting sharp shadows across her face. Her posture was rigid, but there was a softness in her voice when she spoke.

"Draco?" she called softly, stepping closer to the bars.

Draco barely stirred. His head, weighed down by exhaustion and pain, lifted just enough for him to glance at her before he dropped it again. His voice, when he spoke, was low and flat.

"Leave, Mother," he muttered, his tone devoid of emotion.

Narcissa flinched, but only for a moment. "Draco, please," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Just tell the Dark Lord the truth. Tell them what they want to hear, and then... I'll take you away from all of this. We can go far, far away, where they can't reach us."

Her voice was pleading now, almost desperate, but Draco didn't react. He remained curled up, his back to her. When he spoke again, his voice was sharper, edged with bitterness.

"It's too late for that now, Mother. We all made our choices, and this is what came of it. Thinking we can escape… It's a fool's dream."

Narcissa stepped closer to the bars, her eyes filled with worry. "Draco, please," she begged, her voice quieter now, filled with a sorrow that she couldn't quite suppress. "I don't want them to hurt you anymore."

"Well, it's too late for that too, isn't it?" Draco spat, his tone laced with anger, though he didn't even look at her.

The silence that followed felt like it lasted an eternity. Narcissa stood there, watching her son, helplessness written across her usually composed face. Draco's words had cut deep, but she knew they were true. The choices had been made. The consequences were inescapable.

With a slow, deliberate movement, she reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out a small bowl of soup. She crouched down, placing it gently on the cold stone floor just inside the cell. The aroma of fresh broth filled the small space, making Hermione's stomach clench painfully.

She hadn't realized how hungry she was until that moment. Her eyes, tired and bloodshot, flickered over to the bowl. It smelled so good, like it was warm and freshly made. She imagined herself spooning it into her mouth, the heat filling her, giving her a brief moment of comfort amidst the misery.

But Narcissa's cold voice shattered that fragile hope. "None for you," she said, her smile as insincere and cruel as her sister's. Hermione's heart sank as she looked away, biting back the wave of hopelessness that threatened to swallow her.

Narcissa didn't spare Hermione another glance. Instead, she turned back to Draco, her voice a thin thread of forced warmth. "Eat up, Draco," she said softly, almost as if nothing had changed between them. But the coldness in her demeanor lingered, a reminder of where their loyalties lay.

With that, she turned and began to ascend the stairs, her heels clicking on the stone steps in rhythm with the silence of the dungeon. The door slammed behind her, leaving the cell in near darkness once more.