Hermione jolted awake to the harsh sound of metal clanging, followed by the cell door groaning open. She blinked, disoriented, trying to shake off sleep as her mind scrambled to understand what was happening. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, just in time to see Malfoy being hauled out of the cell by two Death Eaters. He hadn't fully woken up, his body limp, until he was violently yanked forward. The fearful expression on his face betrayed him, making him look younger, more vulnerable than ever before.
He thrashed instinctively, panicked and uncoordinated, his movements wild in the Death Eaters' grip. The retaliation was swift—a sharp curse that hit him like a blow, forcing him to double over with a gasp. Hermione's breath hitched, her hands gripping the cold bars of the cell as she watched helplessly. They dragged him upstairs, the door slamming shut behind them, but her eyes stayed fixed on where he had disappeared.
Time dragged painfully as she listened, her imagination filling in the horrors of what they were doing to him. Every muffled scream, every faint sound of struggle felt like an eternity. She was angry with herself for feeling so powerless.
When the cell door finally creaked open again, they threw him back in like discarded trash. His body hit the stone floor with a thud, a quiet sob escaping his lips. He curled in on himself, convulsing, his entire frame shaking. One of the Death Eaters spat at him with disgust. "You're a disgrace to the Malfoy name," the man snarled before stomping out, the sound of his boots echoing away.
Malfoy lay there, a pitiful heap in the center of the cell, his body wracked with silent tremors. Hermione's heart twisted painfully in her chest. She had heard him scream before, had seen him wear that mask of cold indifference, but she had never seen him like this—broken, vulnerable, and crying. It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Slowly, she moved closer, her footsteps quiet against the stone floor. She wasn't sure why she was drawn to him like this, why she couldn't just turn away and leave him in his misery. Maybe it was because, despite everything, they were both prisoners here—caught in a war neither had wanted, stripped of their choices, their identities crushed under the weight of expectation and fear.
As she crouched down beside him, she heard his broken voice. "I can't see," he whimpered, his words filled with terror and confusion.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat, her body freezing. Fear lanced through her. "What do you mean you can't see?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
The boy's head jerked in her direction, his eyes wide and unfocused, searching the empty space. His panic was palpable, suffocating. "Where are you, Granger?" he asked, his voice cracking.
She leaned in closer, her hand reaching out instinctively. "I'm right here," she said softly, her voice a little steadier this time. "Right in front of you."
His hand shot out, groping blindly until his fingers brushed against hers. She flinched at the unexpected contact, but before she could pull away, he grabbed onto her hand like it was the only solid thing in a world slipping out of his control. His grip was tight, desperate, and trembling.
"I—I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice raw. "I wasn't sure if you were real."
Hermione swallowed hard, her heart hammering in her chest. She didn't know what to say, so she didn't speak. Instead, she tightened her grip on his hand, letting him know she was there, that she wasn't going to leave him like this. The tension between them, the hatred and the history, seemed to fade away in the dim light of the cell. They were just two people trapped in the same nightmare.
They stayed like that, hand in hand, neither one moving or speaking. His quiet sobs filled the silence, echoing off the stone walls, each one breaking the fragile air between them.
