Obliviate

Chapter Two | The Lost Gryffindor

During the early morning on Hermione's third autumn spent locked inside Hogwarts walls, she laid wide awake, staring into the abyss. Just waiting for something to happen.

There was no doubt that all days she spent locked behind bars wasn't long, but nothing had prepared her for what would become, that made them longer.

The large, partially empty room was an upgrade from the damp and disgusting smelling cell; for it had a double bed, a dresser, a small desk, and a bedside table.

As it was in the dungeons, the decor remained relevant to the Slytherin's that once walked these very corridors, and stayed in this very room. Everything was mostly green and silver, and all the wood was mahogany.

Hermione was requested to wear the same, simple black uniform everyday - which consisted of a black button up, a black pencil skirt, with tights and a pair of black kitten heels. Her hair was to be pinned back, and she needed to be presentable at all times due to her hierarchy within Lord Voldemort's ranks.

Hermione was his best conversion, the bold, intelligent Gryffindor now riddled with dark magic and a faithful servant to the darkness itself.

She once radiated light, purity, and happiness - yet, the small spark that did remain within her, was mercilessly taken from her when the healers shattered her memories. She was left to wither away into a shell, a useable weapon with little to no emotion causing her to be ruthless.

Hermione was now everything she once feared in her nightmares, and her own worst enemy.

The worst part about it all - she felt it all, slowly losing a grip on the right reality, losing her grip on her hopes and dreams, and losing her grip to prevent herself from plunging deeper into the darkness.

Hermione laid flat, her arms down by her side with her head lightly propped up on a small pillow. She stared up at the dimly lit ceiling, her expression blank.

It was the early hours of the morning, she'd managed to memorise the time of day according to the amount of lack of light or the colour peeping through her window.

After being moved from her cell last year, Hermione had been placed into the dungeons, and all she could see was the eeriness that was left in the black lake, with no living creatures inhabiting the remains.

Voldemort himself had eradicated anything that was left behind after Dumbledore's demise, anything that got in his way he simply killed them with the killing curse - or worse, tortured them for fun.

At the time, Hermione thought this was sick and inhumane at the beginning, but now she didn't even flinch whilst watching the cruciatus curse in full effect.

She was simply damaged goods.

The light glistened through the water, reflecting onto the scuffed mahogany wooden flooring. Hermione pushed her small body from the middle of the bed to the edge, swinging her legs over the side of the mattress.

She sighed, and dragged her nimble hands over her face, and down her neck. In an hours time, she would return to Voldemort to help assist with his tedious tasks.

If Hermione wasn't as bright, she would've been tortured a hundred times over by now.

He needed her, he needed her to find information for him, sometimes he would use legilimens to dig deep into her mind and cast out her broken memories about The Order.

In the early days, she'd considered teaching herself occlumency, but the dark magic engulfed her, causing her not to care what the Dark Lord found in her mind.

She stood up from her bed, and began pacing around her chambers. She didn't know what to do with herself most of the time - and considering she had been held as a prisoner for two and a half years, Hermione had yet to figure out what to do with herself when she wasn't completing tasks for the Dark Lord.