Price Ch.22

The air in the dungeon was thick with oppressive darkness, the kind that pressed on your chest and made every breath feel like a struggle. The mark—the Hanged Man—pulsed on Hermione's skin, burning deeply into her chest with a force that could not be ignored. It was more than just a brand. It was an anchor, an anchor to something darker, something far worse than she could have imagined.

When the brand first seared into her skin, the pain had been unbearable—raw, almost blinding. It had felt like her very soul was being torn apart, but now, it was as though the curse was slowly siphoning away more than just her magic. The mark was alive, a sinister thing that seemed to take pleasure in her suffering.

Hermione had always known that magic could be used for good or ill, but she had never imagined a spell so cruel, so insidious. The brand was designed not just to mark her as a traitor, a Mudblood, but to drain the very essence of her being. Every flicker of magic she tried to summon, every attempt to fight back, only fed the mark. It was as if the magic she had spent years learning and perfecting was being siphoned directly into the Dark Lord's own power.

At first, it was subtle. The burning in her chest, the faint dizziness, the feeling of magic slipping through her fingers. But now, she could feel it. Her magic was being sucked out, like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding, and it was being fed directly to Voldemort.

The walls around her seemed to hum with dark energy, as though the stones themselves were alive with the magic being siphoned through the mark. She could feel the pulse of it—dark, malevolent energy that thrummed just beneath her skin, reaching into her core, trying to tear her apart. Every time she struggled against it, every time she resisted, the pain grew worse, the siphoning more pronounced.

She could feel her magic draining from her body, flowing out like water from a broken dam. It was slow at first, but now it was a flood. Every spell she had ever known, every charm, every incantation, was slipping away from her. The mark on her chest burned hotter, and it was as though her very magic was being pulled out of her and sent to another, far more powerful force.

And she knew exactly where it was going.

The Dark Lord.

Her chest ached with the weight of it. She had always known the Death Eaters were dangerous, but now, she understood in a way that was visceral and real. The mark wasn't just a symbol of allegiance. It was a conduit—a drain—used to siphon the very magic of Muggle-borns like her to fuel the Dark Lord's own power. It was a twisted, sadistic way to remove any trace of her identity, her essence, and feed it to a monster who thrived on the suffering of others.

The thought made her stomach turn. The more she resisted, the more the mark burned, but if she gave in, if she let it take her magic completely, then she would be no better than a puppet, a hollow shell of her former self.

She could hear the faint murmurs of voices from outside her cell, Death Eaters discussing their experiments, their plans. She couldn't make out all the words, but the purpose was clear: they were testing the mark on her to refine it, to perfect it. And the plan wasn't just to stop at her.

"No one's going to know what hit them when we unleash this," a familiar voice sneered. Rodolphus Lestrange, the Death Eater who had been present when the mark was branded onto her skin. "The Mudbloods won't stand a chance. Imagine an army of these branded… magic siphoned straight from them to the Dark Lord. He will grow stronger than anyone can imagine."

Another voice, this one colder, more calculated, responded, "It's not just about magic. It's about control. When the Mudbloods' magic starts to fade, they will be nothing more than animals. Weak. Defenseless."

Hermione's blood ran cold.

So it wasn't just about marking her. It wasn't just about taking her magic. They were going to do it to every Muggle-born witch and wizard they could get their hands on. The Death Eaters would siphon their magic until there was nothing left, and the Dark Lord would be unstoppable.

Her mind raced as the words sank in. If they could do this to her, they could do it to anyone. Her friends. Ginny. Harry. Ron. She couldn't let that happen. She couldn't let them take away the very thing that made them who they were.

But her magic was slipping away. The more she tried to fight back, the more it drained from her, until she could feel nothing but the void left behind. It was like an endless pit, pulling at her, sucking her down into the dark.

Her hands trembled, and she could barely lift them to touch the burning mark on her chest. Her core—her magic—felt as though it was being torn from her, piece by piece. It wasn't just painful. It was hollowing her out. The more she resisted, the sicker she became. The nausea from earlier had returned, but this time it was stronger, fiercer, as if the dark magic itself was poisoning her from the inside out.

Her head spun as the darkness began to close in around her. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't focus. It was all becoming too much, and for a moment, she thought she might collapse. She fell to her knees, gasping for air, the pain from the mark surging through her like a fiery snake coiling around her insides. Her body was being wracked with violent shudders as the sickness spread. Every muscle in her body felt like it was being pulled taut, like she was being stretched to the point of breaking.

But still, she held on. She couldn't let go. Not now. Not ever.

In the silence of her cell, the only sound was the faint hum of the mark, feeding the Dark Lord's power. She could feel it—his cold presence, growing stronger with every drop of magic that left her. She was nothing but a conduit, a tool to make him stronger, but she wasn't going to let him take everything. Not without a fight.

Every fiber of her being screamed in resistance, even as the sickness tore through her. She wasn't sure how much longer she could hold on. Her magic was slipping away, but she would not let it define her. She would not let them take her soul.

Her pulse raced as her vision began to blur, but her determination burned brighter. They were using her as a weapon, but she was not their weapon. She was still Hermione Granger. And if it was the last thing she did, she would fight until the end.