T R A I N E D T O S I N | dramione

Nine

Hermione opened her eyes. She saw nothing and blinked several times in case she had actually failed to open her eyes the first time. She wondered for a moment if she was blind. She strained her eyes, squinting hopelessly in front of her. It was as though the space around her didn't exist, not even a pin-point of light to perhaps cast a shadow. Just darkness.

The room was quiet. Too quiet to where the only sound was her blood rushing past her ears. She swore if she tried hard enough, she could hear her lungs filling with air as she inhaled.

The cold began to bite her. She wrapped her arms around herself desperate for warmth, clinging to her waist but her fingers had already began to grow numb and she fumbled with them, eager to feel something.

The witch rubbed her temples, squeezing her eyes shut as her head throbbed painfully. Her body felt as though it was spinning rapidly, every time she blinked, it would switch direction and she wretched with the intensity. She could feel her stomach turning as she leaned between her legs. She gagged uncontrollably. The sour taste of bile rising up her throat. With one more harsh turn she was sick. The foul smell was instant, filtering through her nose and she flinched away. Hermione's throat burned, from either the bile or trauma she wasn't sure.

It took her five days to move from the spot she had woken up in. Every attempt ended in her unruly shaking, pushing her self further into her corner. But when her stomach began to scream more vigorously at her, she reached out her hands. She placed them on the ground directly in front of her and clambered hesitatingly to her knees. With each movement forward, her throat tightened and she gasped desperately for air. She made contact and smashed her side into the wall, collapsing and panting. That was where she stayed for what she presumed to be a day. Hermione hadn't eaten for nearly a week.

She rose wearily to her feet, her hand pressed up against the wall just so she would know it was still there. The wall was stone, cold and rutted as she spread her hands desperately across it. It was rough as she began to walk, dragging her left side against it, surely ripping her clothes, following each turn with caution and precision. Hermione counted ten steps at each corner, indicating the room was a generous size. On one side, there was a tall barred door, like one you would recognise from a prison. The cold metal stung her hands and she flinched away from it. She searched the room. They hadn't given her any food. Just a small cup of lukewarm water.

Hermione woke the next few weeks greeted by a small plate left in front of the door. How it got there, she didn't know, nor did she care to find out. She wouldn't have known it was there if it weren't for the smell. Everyday, she felt around the floor, on her hands and knees for the meal provided. On the first morning, she refused to eat, a possible attempt of protest. But her stomach screamed viciously at her until she couldn't stand the pain anymore. She realised she was only punishing herself and for no valid reason. She doubted they would care if she ate at all, that was if they even knew.

It was a consistent ensemble of stale bread and boiled potatoes. They were never hot, presumably another way in which they could deprive her. She was given two cups of water a day. She was living off the bare minimum. Her plate and cup were plastic and she expected the cutlery would be too, had she been given any. A way of cleaning herself would have been considered luxury. Hermione hadn't washed since she was at Hogwarts. An attempt to dehumanise her she supposed. Everything appeared while Hermione was asleep and at irregular times as if to deprive her of anything close to a routine. She had lost all sense of time.

She had become rather good at navigating in the dark. Every time she woke she crawled to the door effortlessly. The same meal had been provided since she had arrived and her stomach yearned for change. But no matter her silent pleas, the food was always the same; bread and potatoes.