Obliviate

Chapter Eighteen | The Golden Snitch

When Hermione woke, she no longer lay scattered into a millions pieces on the floor. She'd been gathered and put back together again, one by one.

The ache in her muscles had subsided, and her fingers no longer twitched. Her brain though - it felt as if somebody had permanently branded a memory Hermione had no recollection of living through into her mind.

It was just like she'd been stigmatised. And yet - she had no clue who brought the red-hot metal to her mind and singed in the memory in forever.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it.

It wasn't clear - like a blur of emotions and a smudge of recollections - but, she could see it behind her eyelids.

A small chair, battered and bruised. Made of old oak - cracks tracing the wood and travelling around the legs like a leech. The enchanted rope that tied their legs to the oak, and then the body that sat limp.

"Oh my - what have they done to you?" Hermione called, holding back her sobs as she looked at the scene in front of her.

She tried not to cry or let herself be known to feel sadness. Because emotions - they made a person weak. They showed others that they have a certain spot which could be exploited and used for the other persons benefit.

And for that, Hermione held in her tears like her life depended on it. She bit down on her tongue so hard that blood seeped over her tastebuds, plagiarising them until her mouth was swimming in the strong iron taste.

Their face was a mixture of the deepest despondency and desolation. Hermione could barely picture their features in her mind as she walked over cautiously, clasping her wand between her fingers.

Hermione wished she could close the door on the memory. Slam it. Shut the door so hard it bounced off the hinges and caused cracks to coarse through the wood at the speed of light.

Because for the first time - she felt the deep set sorrow that lingered inside of her like a charm spell hanging overhead of her, like a bad rain cloud on a sunny day.

Eventually, it would pass. But for now, she held in the pain so deeply and manifested into something greater.

Power.

If being the Dark Lord's right-hand woman taught Hermione one thing, it was to never let her guard down and to always look out for herself. And if anybody dared to get too close-

She'd dispose of them.

She had too.

Anything that threatened her hierarchy was potentially damaging. Small - large - it cost cost her her life. Hermione Granger may have been a brave Gryffindor all those years ago, but now she truly wore the scales that inhabited her skin.

Her soul.

Echos of small talk and the scuffing of shoes against the floor tortured her senses as she came too. Her skin felt hot. The nape of her neck felt thick with sweat. Her eyes felt glued shut as she ripped them apart together - peeling them open and revealing a small, old office.

Was she still in the castle?

Everything was a blur. The migraine that plagued her mind caused small, white flashing dots to appear in flecks in her vision.