Chapter 3: The Visitations

The darkness had become her world. Time no longer mattered—only the relentless cycle of waking and drifting off into a fitful sleep, plagued by fevered dreams that blurred the line between reality and the horrors of her mind. Hunger gnawed at her, a constant, vicious companion that twisted her insides and made every breath a laborious effort. Thirst was a crueler master, leaving her tongue swollen, her throat raw, and her thoughts muddled with desperation.

In the suffocating silence of the cell, Hermione's mind began to turn against her. The walls seemed to pulse and close in, the stone floor beneath her no longer felt solid but fluid, shifting like quicksand beneath her. She tried to focus, to hold on to something real, but the world around her was slipping through her fingers, becoming something strange, something unrecognizable.

It started with whispers, faint and distant, like echoes in the dark. She thought at first it was the wind, but there was no wind here, no breeze to carry sound through the still, stagnant air. The whispers grew louder, more distinct, until they were all around her, overlapping and intertwining in a chaotic symphony that made her head throb.

She strained to catch the words, to make sense of the voices, but they slipped away, just beyond her grasp. They were familiar, though—hauntingly familiar, like a memory just out of reach. And then, slowly, the voices began to take shape, to form into words, sentences, names.

"Hermione…"

She flinched at the sound of her name, her heart skipping a beat. She wasn't alone anymore. There was someone here with her, someone in the darkness. Her breath quickened, her pulse racing with a mix of fear and hope. Was it real? Was someone really here to help her?

"Why didn't you save us, Hermione?"

The voice was soft, but the accusation was sharp, cutting through her like a blade. She knew that voice—knew it as well as her own. She turned her head, squinting into the darkness, trying to see, trying to find the source of the voice. But there was nothing there, only the shadows that danced and flickered at the edges of her vision.

"Ron?" she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and lanky, with a shock of red hair and eyes that were filled with a sadness that made her chest tighten. Ron Weasley stood before her, his face pale and drawn, his clothes torn and bloodstained. He looked like he had on that day—no, it wasn't possible. He couldn't be here. He was—

"Dead," Ron said, as if reading her thoughts. His voice was hollow, empty. "I'm dead because of you, Hermione."

Hermione recoiled, shaking her head, trying to deny the words, but they echoed in her mind, relentless. "No, no, it's not true," she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. "I—I tried to save you. I did everything I could."

Ron's face twisted into a grimace, his eyes narrowing with anger. "Everything you could? You left us, Hermione. You left me to die."

The accusation hit her like a physical blow, and she doubled over, gasping for breath. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. But the words, the look in Ron's eyes—they burrowed into her mind, feeding on her guilt, on her fear. She had always blamed herself for what had happened, for the friends she had lost, but hearing it, seeing it—it was too much.

"You could have saved us," another voice said, soft and gentle, but laced with disappointment. Hermione looked up, her vision blurred with tears, and saw another figure standing beside Ron.

Luna Lovegood, her silvery-blonde hair hanging limp around her shoulders, her eyes wide and sad. Luna, who had always been a beacon of light, now stood before her like a ghost, her expression one of quiet reproach.

"Why didn't you, Hermione?" Luna asked, her voice trembling. "We needed you."

Hermione's hands trembled as she reached out to them, but they stepped back, their faces twisted with pain and betrayal. "I—I'm sorry," she choked out, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

But they didn't respond. They just stood there, watching her with those haunted eyes, their expressions a mix of sorrow and accusation. And then more figures began to emerge from the shadows, one by one, each face more familiar and more painful than the last.

Fred and George, their usual mischief replaced with cold, empty stares. Tonks, her vibrant hair now dull and lifeless, her eyes filled with anger. Remus, his face lined with exhaustion, his gaze piercing and unforgiving.

"Hermione, why didn't you stop them?" Tonks asked, her voice sharp and accusatory. "You were supposed to be the smart one."

Hermione shook her head, her hands clawing at her temples as if she could physically block out their voices. "I—I tried, I did everything I could, I swear."

Fred's laughter rang out, but it was hollow, joyless. "But it wasn't enough, was it? You weren't enough."

Hermione's chest tightened, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The walls of the cell seemed to close in around her, the air growing thick and suffocating. She tried to push herself up, tried to move, but her body wouldn't respond, paralyzed by the weight of their accusations, by the crushing guilt that threatened to swallow her whole.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking, her words barely audible over the cacophony of voices. "I'm so sorry."

But her apologies fell on deaf ears. The figures continued to stare at her, their eyes filled with disappointment, with accusation, with betrayal. And no matter how much she pleaded, no matter how much she tried to explain, they wouldn't listen. They wouldn't forgive.

"Why didn't you save us, Hermione?"

The question echoed in her mind, relentless, unyielding, until it was all she could hear, all she could think. It pounded in her skull, reverberating through her bones, driving her to the brink of madness.

"Please," she begged, her voice raw, her throat burning. "Please, just stop."

But the voices only grew louder, more insistent, more accusatory. The figures crowded around her, their faces twisted with anger and sorrow, their voices rising in a deafening chorus of blame.

"Hermione…"

"Why didn't you save us?"

"It's your fault, Hermione."

"You left us to die."

"No!" she screamed, her voice tearing through the silence, her body convulsing with the force of her denial. "It's not my fault! I tried, I tried—"

The darkness swirled around her, the shadows closing in, suffocating her, drowning her in the sea of her own guilt. She clawed at the air, at the shadows, trying to escape, trying to find something, anything, to hold on to. But there was nothing. Only the darkness, only the voices, only the endless accusations.

"Hermione…"

"Why didn't you save us?"

She curled into herself, her body shaking with sobs, her mind fracturing under the weight of their words. There was no escape, no solace. Only the crushing guilt, the overwhelming despair, the knowledge that she had failed them. That she had failed everyone.

And as the darkness closed in, suffocating her, drowning her in her own torment, she realized with a sinking dread that this was her new reality. This was the punishment she had feared, the one she could never escape.

She was alone.

Alone with her guilt.

Alone with her dead.

Dolores Umbridge walked through the dimly lit corridor of the camp, her heels clicking softly against the cold stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something far more pungent—the stench of despair and fear that seemed to permeate every inch of the place. She inhaled deeply, savoring it like the finest perfume. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that she was in control here, that she held the power over so many lives, over so many minds.

The corridor led to a small, sparsely furnished room near the heart of the camp, where the walls were lined with ancient tapestries, their colors faded by time and neglect. A large, dark wooden table dominated the center of the room, its surface worn and scarred from years of use. Candles flickered in iron sconces on the walls, casting long, wavering shadows that danced like restless spirits.

Bellatrix Lestrange was already there, reclining in one of the high-backed chairs, her feet propped up on the table, her wild black hair spilling over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. Her eyes, dark and glittering with a manic intensity, flicked up as Umbridge entered, a smile of twisted delight curling her lips.

"Ah, Dolores," Bellatrix purred, her voice low and throaty. "How is our favorite little Mudblood? Still resisting, I hope?"

Umbridge's expression was one of barely concealed distaste, though she masked it with a tight-lipped smile. She had never liked Bellatrix, not really. The woman was too unpredictable, too volatile, too... unhinged. But she was also valuable—Voldemort's most loyal servant, a powerful witch in her own right. And so, Umbridge tolerated her presence, even if it made her skin crawl.

"She's proving to be quite the challenge," Umbridge replied, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "But I do believe she's beginning to understand the futility of her resistance. A few more lessons, and she'll be ready to embrace her new reality."

Bellatrix let out a soft, delighted laugh, the sound sending a shiver down Umbridge's spine. "Good, good," she murmured, almost to herself. "I do love it when they fight. It makes their eventual submission so much sweeter."

Umbridge took a seat at the table, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "Of course, the Mudblood isn't the only one here with potential," she said, her tone businesslike. "We have several others in the camp who are showing promise. With the right... guidance, they could prove quite useful to the Dark Lord's cause."

Bellatrix's eyes gleamed with interest, and she leaned forward slightly, her smile widening. "Do tell, Dolores. Who else do we have worth breaking?"

Umbridge allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. She had been overseeing the camp's operations for some time now, and she took great pride in her work. The camp was more than just a prison—it was a place of transformation, where the weak were made strong, where the defiant were made obedient. And there were several individuals here who had the potential to become something... remarkable.

"There's a young wizard in Cell 14," Umbridge began, her tone thoughtful. "A half-blood, if I recall correctly. He's shown remarkable resilience during the... reeducation process. Stubborn, but not unbreakable. I believe with a few more sessions, he could be molded into a valuable asset."

Bellatrix nodded slowly, her expression one of consideration. "And what of the others? Surely there are more with potential."

"Indeed," Umbridge replied, her eyes narrowing slightly. "In Cell 22, there's a witch who was quite skilled in Healing before her capture. She's been resistant, but I see potential in her. With the right incentives, she could be turned into a useful tool—a healer loyal to our cause, capable of mending our soldiers while ensuring the traitors receive... appropriate treatment."

Bellatrix's smile turned wicked. "A healer, you say? Yes, that could be useful. We do need more healers on our side—those who can be trusted, of course."

Umbridge nodded in agreement. "And then there's the boy in Cell 7. He's young, but already shows a talent for defensive magic. His loyalty is still questionable, but with the proper... encouragement, I believe he could be made to see the error of his ways."

Bellatrix's eyes glittered with malicious delight. "Ah, the young ones are always the most fun to break. So full of hope, so sure of themselves. It's almost a shame to see that light snuffed out... almost."

Umbridge leaned back slightly, her expression calculating. "The Dark Lord has entrusted us with the task of reshaping these individuals, of turning them into something useful, something that serves his grand design. And we will not fail him. Those who prove too weak, too stubborn to break... well, they will serve as examples to the others."

Bellatrix nodded in agreement, her smile fading into something darker, more sinister. "And what of the Mudblood?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous. "What do you plan to do with her once she's broken?"

Umbridge's smile returned, cold and sharp. "Hermione Granger is a special case. Once she realizes the futility of her defiance, I believe she could become a powerful symbol of the Dark Lord's mercy. A former member of the resistance, now loyal and devoted to our cause. It would send a powerful message to the others—one that they would not soon forget."

Bellatrix's laughter rang out, echoing off the stone walls, a sound that was equal parts madness and delight. "Oh, Dolores, you are truly a marvel. I look forward to seeing how this all plays out."

Umbridge allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "As do I, Bellatrix. As do I."

The two women sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their plans hanging heavy in the air. They were the architects of this place, the designers of the torment that awaited those within these walls. And they both knew that their work was far from finished. There were still so many minds to break, so many souls to reshape.

And they relished every moment of it.

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"Mrs. Tonks?" Hermione whispered, her voice cracked and barely audible.

Andromeda flinched, a small, involuntary movement that spoke volumes. Her sad smile faltered for a moment before she quickly masked it, but the pain in her eyes remained. "It's Black now, sweetie," she said softly, her voice tinged with a bittersweet sadness. "As it should be."

Hermione's heart lurched in her chest. Andromeda—no, Mrs. Black—looked so different from the last time she had seen her. The years of loss and suffering had hollowed out the vibrant woman she once knew, leaving behind a shadow of her former self. Her once bright features were now etched with lines of grief, and her hair, now streaked with gray, hung limply around her face.

"Yes, Hermione," Andromeda continued, her voice warm and soothing, like a mother comforting a child. "It's me."