Storm Ch.23

The room was thick with tension. The Order had gathered in secret again, but the usual buzz of discussion and strategizing was absent. The faces around the table were drawn, expressions hard with frustration and worry. There was no progress, no word on Hermione Granger's whereabouts. She had vanished without a trace, as though the earth had swallowed her whole.

Ginny Weasley sat at the edge of the room, her fingers wrapped around a glass, but she hardly noticed it. Her thoughts were elsewhere—her mind constantly returning to Hermione. Where could she be? The last anyone had heard, she had gone to meet with Harry and Ron, but after that... nothing. She hadn't been seen or heard from in what felt like days. There had been no sign, no trace of her. It was as if she'd simply disappeared.

The silence in the room was suffocating. She could hear murmurs of uncertainty from the others—members of the Order who feared the worst. Ginny's chest tightened. Could the Death Eaters have found her already? Or worse, was she dead?

Her fingers tightened around the glass, and she set it down on the table with a soft clink. Her heart raced as she glanced around the room. There was a sinking feeling in her gut, a feeling that no one could voice. Everyone had the same question. And no one had the answer. She wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come. How long would it take before they gave up looking for her?

Ginny's voice broke the silence, her words quiet but heavy. "She's gone, isn't she?"

The words hung in the air, and everyone turned toward her, their faces weary but not surprised. They had thought the same thing. Hermione was gone. And in the midst of their own turmoil, the Order had no answers to offer.

"Ginny, we don't know that," one of the members said, his voice shaky.

She shook her head, but it wasn't a denial. It was the acceptance of an ugly truth. "I know."

The murmurs around the table grew louder, and Ginny felt her anger rising. "We're all just waiting for news that'll never come. What are we supposed to do now? Just wait for them to kill her?"

"We'll keep looking," a voice spoke up, but it was hollow. Even they knew there was little hope left.

Hermione's mind felt hazy, her body trembling with weakness as she was dragged through the cold, echoing halls of Malfoy Manor. The brand on her chest burned fiercely, the magic seeping into her, pulling at her very soul. She could feel it, the pull—siphoning her magic away, draining it, and feeding it somewhere far darker than her own body. Her strength was ebbing away, but she forced herself to stand tall, even as every step felt heavier than the last.

They had kept her in isolation for days, maybe weeks—time had lost meaning. The room where she had been confined had grown colder with each passing hour. They were siphoning her magic, feeding it into the Dark Lord's reserves, and she was powerless to stop it.

The mark—the Hanged Man—still glowed faintly on her chest, the lines of it etched deep into her skin. But it was not just a brand. No, it was far worse. It wasn't just physical pain; it was a siphoning of her very life force, pulling her magic into the Dark Lord's grasp, strengthening him with every ounce of power that left her.

With every second she spent resisting it, her body grew weaker, but the resistance was almost instinctive. She couldn't—wouldn't—let them take everything from her. But the pain, the sickness it caused, was unbearable.

As she was shoved into a dark, cold room, she could feel it—the familiar pull of dark magic vibrating through the stone. The room was smaller than the others, with fewer decorations, but the same oppressive atmosphere. It was the kind of place where the air was always heavy, as though the walls themselves were holding something back. The only light came from the faint flicker of magical runes embedded in the walls, a pale blue that cast long shadows.

And there he was.

Draco Malfoy stood near the door, back turned, his posture stiff. It was as if he were a shadow in the room, not quite there but not quite gone, either. She could feel his eyes on her even though he hadn't looked up.

Her chest was tight with a mixture of anger and bitterness. "So, you're just going to watch?" she rasped, the words heavy in her throat.

Draco's head snapped up, and his gaze met hers with an unreadable expression. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, with slow precision, he turned away from her, his eyes hardening as he took a few steps toward her.

"I didn't come here for your entertainment," he muttered, but his voice was barely audible. "I came here because it's almost time."

Hermione frowned, her body aching with the weight of her exhaustion. "What do you mean? Almost time for what?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took a breath, as though contemplating how much to reveal. "The Dark Lord's plans are coming to fruition. There's a major attack planned—something big. It'll mark the beginning of the end."

Her stomach twisted with dread at his words. She could feel it now—the pull of the mark, the siphoning of her power, feeding directly into his dark magic. "You're part of that, aren't you? You're helping him," she whispered, her voice thick with contempt.

Draco's eyes flashed, but his face remained stoic. "I'm not your ally, Granger," he said sharply, stepping closer. "Don't forget it."

Hermione tried to sit up straighter despite the overwhelming fatigue. "So, you're just going to let it happen?"

Draco's jaw clenched, but he didn't reply immediately. Then, as if speaking to himself, he muttered, "You think I have a choice in any of this?" He let out a low sigh, glancing around the room as though the weight of the situation was too much to carry. "They're going to use the Mudbloods. They'll take all of you, every last one, and use you as power sources to fuel the Dark Lord's magic. You're not just a prisoner—you're a tool."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat, a sickening realization settling over her. "And what about you, Draco?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Where do you stand?"

Draco's expression faltered for a split second, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face. But before she could push him further, he turned his back on her, his footsteps echoing coldly as he walked toward the door.

"The war is starting soon, Granger. You'd better be ready," he said, his voice cold. "And don't mistake any of this for kindness."

He left her there, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving her alone in the suffocating silence of the manor.

The pull of the magic—of the Dark Lord's power—grew stronger. And with it, the dread of what was coming next.