A sharp crack shattered the oppressive silence of the cell. Hermione's heart leaped into her throat, but the familiar high-pitched voice that followed quickly reassured her.
"Mipsy has brought the Miss what she asked for," whispered the house elf, her footsteps light and quick, echoing faintly in the cramped space.
Malfoy was lying still on his cot, either genuinely asleep or feigning it—Hermione couldn't tell, nor did she care. She crawled toward the iron bars of the cell, her heart pounding, and stretched out her hands eagerly.
"Thank you. Thank you so much, Mipsy," she said softly, her fingers trembling as the elf slid a small leather-bound journal and a quill with a bottle of ink through the narrow gap.
"It is Mipsy's pleasure to be helping the Miss," Mipsy replied, her wide, toothy grin shining in the dim light. Hermione tried to smile back, but it felt hollow, her face unable to mask the exhaustion and emptiness in her eyes.
"How is Master Draco?" the house elf asked, her hands fluttering nervously as she glanced around the dungeon, ensuring she remained unnoticed.
"I think he's fine," Hermione answered quietly, glancing back at Draco's still form. "We don't speak much."
"That is okay," Mipsy said with a quick nod, wringing her small hands. "Mipsy is just wanting to make sure the young master is in good health."
"That's very kind of you, Mipsy. I'll be sure to tell him you asked about him," Hermione said, her voice softening. "It might comfort him, knowing that someone cares."
"Mipsy is hoping so, Miss," the elf whispered, giving one final wave of her hand before vanishing with another crack.
As the echo of the apparition faded, Hermione looked down at the journal and quill in her hands. A flicker of life returned to her eyes. Her mind sharpened, no longer drifting aimlessly between hunger and hopelessness. She knelt beside her cot, carefully opening the journal. The blank pages seemed to call to her, an invitation to take control of something—anything—in this hellish situation.
With a sense of urgency, she dipped the quill into the ink and began writing, her hand moving rapidly across the page. She recorded everything: the horrors she'd witnessed, the fleeting conversations, the details of Malfoy Manor. She knew this journal could be a lifeline—evidence. When Harry and Ron found her, when the Order brought down the Death Eaters, these pages would help bring justice to those responsible. Every word was a step toward that future.
As she wrote, her hope, faint but persistent, surged anew. She would survive this. And when she did, she'd have the truth written down in ink.