Caged Light
Pain. Searing, white-hot pain, unlike anything Hermione had ever felt before, ripped through her entire body. It clawed at her bones, tore through her muscles, and left her gasping for breath. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, agony sparking along her spine as she fought to breathe.
Then, suddenly, the pain vanished.
She slumped forward, gasping for air, every part of her trembling. Her vision blurred, and she blinked rapidly, trying to force her surroundings into focus. Cold stone beneath her knees. Shadows flickering across a vast, empty hall. The scent of something sharp and metallic lingering in the air—blood, fear... dark magic.
She looked up and immediately wished she hadn't.
A pair of crimson eyes glowed in the dim light, watching her with a terrifying intensity. Voldemort stood over her, his thin lips curved into a mocking smile. His presence filled the room, oppressive and cold, like a shroud of death.
"Welcome back, Miss Granger," he murmured softly, his voice slithering through the silence. "I hope I didn't damage you too much. It would be such a shame to break a mind as sharp as yours."
Hermione's body screamed at her to move, to fight, to run, but she couldn't. The aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse still reverberated through her limbs, leaving her weak and unsteady. She forced herself to sit up straighter, trying to hide the fear that twisted in her chest.
"What do you want?" she rasped, her voice hoarse and raw.
Voldemort's smile widened. "So direct. And here I thought we might exchange pleasantries." He took a slow step closer, his gaze never leaving her face. "But very well, if you insist. You see, I'm curious, Miss Granger. What would drive a Mudblood like you to come so close to death, just to defile my treasures?"
Her heart pounded wildly, but she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. "You know what we're doing," she said quietly, refusing to back down. "We're destroying them."
"Ah, yes, the Horcruxes." His voice was almost playful, as if they were discussing the weather. "And I suppose you thought you would find the secrets to my immortality hidden away in a dusty old cup?" He laughed softly, the sound low and dangerous. "How very clever."
He leaned in, his face inches from hers, and Hermione felt a shudder of revulsion ripple through her. But she didn't move. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
"But cleverness," Voldemort whispered, his breath cold against her skin, "isn't enough to save you now. You have cost me dearly, you and your friends. And I think it's time I repay you for the trouble."
Before she could react, he reached out and gripped her chin, forcing her head up. His touch was like ice, freezing her in place. A dark, coiling magic surged from his fingers, seeping into her skin, and Hermione's vision swam. She struggled, panic rising in her throat, but she was trapped, unable to move, unable to look away from those terrible, glowing eyes.
"Let me show you something," Voldemort murmured, his voice a soft hiss. "A glimpse of what awaits your dear Harry if he dares to defy me again."
Images exploded in her mind—flashes of blood and fire, of screams and darkness. She saw Harry, alone and desperate, battling shadows that clawed at him from every side. She saw Ginny, her face twisted in anguish as he cradled a lifeless body—hers, she realized with a jolt of horror. And she saw Voldemort, standing over them both, his laughter echoing through the air.
"Do you see now, Mudblood?" Voldemort whispered, his voice reverberating through her skull. "Your fight is hopeless. There is no victory for you. There is only pain... and death."
"Stop," Hermione gasped, the word torn from her lips. The images were too much—too real, too overwhelming. She could feel herself unraveling, her mind fraying at the edges as the darkness closed in.
"Stop?" Voldemort mocked. "But we're just getting started."
And then the vision shifted.
She was standing in a dark cell, the walls damp and crumbling. Shadows pressed in around her, thick and suffocating. Chains rattled in the corner, and as she turned, she saw a man—a tall, gaunt figure, his face obscured by grime and shadow. He looked up slowly, and Hermione's breath caught.
"Who—who are you?" she whispered.
The man's lips twisted into a grim smile. "You'll find out soon enough," he rasped, his voice rough and broken. "They're coming, little girl. And when they get here..."
His smile widened, and his teeth gleamed in the darkness.
"...the real fun begins."
"Enough," Voldemort's voice snapped, and the vision shattered.
Hermione reeled back, gasping, her head spinning. She was back in the hall, back on her knees, with Voldemort's grip still locked around her chin. He released her abruptly, and she collapsed forward, shaking violently. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, and her heart hammered so hard she thought it might burst.
"You see now, don't you?" Voldemort said softly. "There is no hope for you. No rescue. Your precious Harry will fail, just as you have failed."
But even as she lay there, trembling and broken, something inside Hermione stirred—a tiny, stubborn flame, burning fiercely against the darkness. Voldemort might have her trapped. He might be able to twist her mind, to show her horrors that would haunt her forever. But he would not break her.
Because as long as she was still alive, there was hope. And she would hold on to that hope, no matter what it cost her.
"You're wrong," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. But Voldemort heard her. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of cold fury.
"What did you say?"
Hermione forced herself to look up, to meet his gaze. Her body ached, her mind felt like it had been torn to shreds—but she wouldn't give in. She wouldn't let him win.
"You're wrong," she repeated, stronger this time. "Harry will find me. And when he does, he'll destroy you."
For a heartbeat, the chamber was deathly silent.
Then Voldemort's eyes narrowed, and his wand flashed.
"Crucio."
The pain hit her like a tidal wave, and Hermione screamed, her body convulsing violently. But even as the agony tore through her, she held on to that one thought—one tiny spark of defiance that refused to be extinguished.
Harry would come.
And until then, she would survive.
No matter what.
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A Few Weeks Later:
days or maybe even weeks passed. Hermione had no way of knowing. There were no windows in the cell where Voldemort had thrown her, no light save for the dim glow of a single enchanted torch that cast long, eerie shadows along the stone walls. She was alone, trapped in darkness, her body aching from the curses Voldemort had cast, her mind still reeling from the twisted visions he had forced upon her.
But she was alive.
That thought was the only anchor she had. Every time she felt herself slipping, every time the pain threatened to overwhelm her, she repeated it silently, over and over, like a mantra.
I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.
She lay curled on the freezing stone floor, knees pulled tightly to her chest, forcing herself to breathe through the remnants of the Cruciatus Curse. Every muscle trembled, her limbs felt heavy and sluggish, but she knew she couldn't afford to be weak. She needed to stay alert. Voldemort might return at any moment, and she had to be ready.
Ready for what, Hermione?she thought bitterly.You're trapped. Alone. What can you possibly do?
But she had survived worse, hadn't she? She wasn't going to give up now. Not when Harry was still out there, searching for her.
If he was even still alive...
"No!" she whispered fiercely, biting back the wave of despair that threatened to engulf her.He's alive. He has to be.
But for how long? The vision Voldemort had shown her—the image of Harry alone, surrounded by darkness, broken and bleeding—it had felt so real. She shuddered, forcing herself to push the memory away.
She needed to think. To focus. Voldemort hadn't killed her—yet. There had to be a reason for that. Some purpose he intended her to serve. And whatever it was, she needed to figure it out.
She shifted slightly, wincing as pain lanced through her side. Her wand was gone, of course. She'd felt it wrenched from her hand during the struggle, the familiar warmth of it disappearing as if a part of her had been severed. Without it, she was defenseless.
But not powerless.
Stay strong,she told herself fiercely.Stay strong. And when the time comes... fight back.
Because no matter what Voldemort intended for her, she wasn't going to let him win.
Not without a fight.
stone floor, knees pulled tightly to her chest, forcing herself to breathe through the remnants of the Cruciatus Curse. Every muscle trembled, her limbs felt heavy and sluggish, but she knew she couldn't afford to be weak. She needed to stay alert. Voldemort might return at any moment, and she had to be ready.
Ready for what, Hermione?she thought bitterly.You're trapped. Alone. What can you possibly do?
But she had survived worse, hadn't she? The thought of the Department of Mysteries flared in her mind—the battle against Bellatrix, the desperate escape with Harry and Ron by her side. She'd faced Death Eaters, escaped capture, fought back against impossible odds. She wasn't going to give up now. Not when Harry was still out there, searching for her.
If he was even still alive...
"No!" she whispered fiercely, biting back the wave of despair that threatened to engulf her.He's alive. He has to be.
But for how long? The vision Voldemort had shown her—the image of Harry alone, surrounded by darkness, broken and bleeding—it had felt so real. She shuddered, forcing herself to push the memory away.
She needed to think. To focus. Voldemort hadn't killed her—yet. There had to be a reason for that. Some purpose he intended her to serve. And whatever it was, she needed to figure it out.
She shifted slightly, wincing as pain lanced through her side. Her wand was gone, of course. She'd felt it wrenched from her hand during the struggle, the familiar warmth of it disappearing as if a part of her had been severed. Without it, she was defenseless.
But not powerless.
Slowly, carefully, she forced herself to sit up. The room spun around her, and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She had to be strategic. She was in Voldemort's territory, likely deep within one of his strongholds. She'd need to find a way out—if there even was one—and gather information along the way. If she could—
The sound of footsteps interrupted her thoughts.
Hermione's eyes snapped open, her heart leaping into her throat. The echo of boots on stone reverberated through the narrow hallway outside her cell, growing louder, closer. She tensed, forcing herself upright, every muscle screaming in protest.
The footsteps stopped.
The heavy door swung open with a groan, and a figure stepped inside. For a moment, Hermione's breath caught in her throat. It wasn't Voldemort.
The man standing before her was tall and thin, his face gaunt and pale beneath the tangled black hair that hung limply around his shoulders. His robes were tattered and grimy, the once-fine fabric stained with dirt and blood. But it was his eyes that held her attention—sharp, dark eyes, glittering with a mixture of contempt and something far more dangerous.
Rodolphus Lestrange.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" His voice was low and mocking, thick with a strange, rasping quality that sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. He stepped closer, his gaze raking over her with a cruel smile. "The little Mudblood, all alone in the dark. How pitiful."
Hermione forced herself to meet his gaze, squaring her shoulders. "What do you want?"
Rodolphus laughed softly, the sound sending a chill through the room. "What do I want?" he repeated, as if the question amused him. "I want to see how much fight you have left. To see if that spark in your eyes burns as brightly when your precious Potter isn't around to protect you."
She clenched her jaw, refusing to look away. "I don't need Harry to protect me."
"Oh, but you do," he murmured, stepping closer still. He reached out, and before she could react, his hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat, hauling her upright. Hermione gasped, choking, her fingers clawing at his wrist.
"But he's not here, is he?" Rodolphus whispered, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot and foul against her skin. "No, it's just you and me now. And I'm going to enjoy breaking you, little Mudblood. Bit by bit, until there's nothing left."
Hermione struggled, panic flaring in her chest. Her vision blurred at the edges, but she forced herself to stay calm, to think.He wants to break you,she reminded herself fiercely.Don't give him the satisfaction.
With a sudden burst of strength, she lashed out, slamming her knee into his stomach. Rodolphus grunted, his grip loosening just enough for her to wrench herself free. She staggered back, gasping for breath, her throat aching where his fingers had dug in.
"You—" His face twisted with fury, and he raised his wand, pointing it directly at her. Hermione froze, every instinct screaming at her to run, but there was nowhere to go.
"Cruc—"
"Enough."
The single word, spoken in a low, commanding voice, echoed through the cell. Rodolphus stiffened, his wand still raised. Hermione's gaze darted past him to the doorway, where another figure stood—tall, cloaked in shadows, his face hidden beneath the hood of his dark robes.
"Rookwood," Rodolphus snarled, lowering his wand reluctantly. "What do you want?"
The man—Rookwood—stepped forward, his movements smooth and unhurried. "The Dark Lord has other plans for the girl," he said softly, his eyes flicking briefly to Hermione. "He wants her alive and… unbroken."
Rodolphus's face contorted with anger. "She's mine!" he spat. "I'll do as I please with her!"
"No." Rookwood's voice was cold, implacable. "You'll do as the Dark Lord commands. Or I'll remind you what happens to those who disobey."
For a moment, the two men glared at each other, the tension crackling in the air. Then, slowly, Rodolphus lowered his wand, his lips curling in a sneer.
"Very well," he muttered. He turned sharply on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he stalked toward the door. "But this isn't over, Mudblood," he hissed, casting one last, venomous look at Hermione before disappearing into the corridor.
Hermione slumped back against the wall, her body shaking with adrenaline. Her throat throbbed where Rodolphus's fingers had gripped her, and her mind spun with questions. Who was this Rookwood? And why had Voldemort ordered her kept alive?
The man watched her silently for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Alone again in the darkness, Hermione drew in a ragged breath.
Fractured Alliances