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Chapter Nineteen | The Boy Who Had No Choice

Three days.

It took Hermione three days before she could walk out of her room without the eternal fear that was Draco Malfoy.

It had been pondering her mind constantly in the seventy-two hours that held her captive. That why - and how - she'd been trapped in Malfoy's lies and dragged into the dark descent.

That bloody castle.

Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on any sort of logical explanation that would cure her itch for the truth. Why did he do it?

They didn't have much time left together before he dragged her back to Lord Voldemort for him to interrogate the pair of them on their 'findings'. Something about having a certain level of freedom caused Hermione's insides to churn - all to be thrown back into the dark, cold dungeons and to carry on being her masters slave.

Because when she would dream - she'd see those eyes.

Bold, and pure ice. Staring into her soul as he ripped it clean from her body, only to twist and manipulate it into something greater.

The other - black as the depths of hell. He watched her when she slept, in her nightmares. Between him and Draco, Grindelwald was equally as disturbing to her.

What on earth did Draco want with man as dangerous as Grindelwald?

Did he not feel fear? Regret? Remorse?

Clearly not - or he would've at least knocked once in the continuous hours Hermione spent in bed, rotating her attention to three things only.

One. Her hair. The curls that drew down her back elegantly before had now lost their shine - frizzing slightly at the bottom and looking as dead as Hermione felt on the inside.

Two. The fact that Draco took something so precious from Hermione where she lay, sleeping and crying over the same reason that put her into a pit of depression hours upon hours during the days in the first place.

Three. That fucking book. The way Hermione ran her fingertips over the pages she'd read a million times over - and yet - it didn't have the same beauty it once did to her. The book was a shrine, and Hermione was simply falling in love with the idea of forgetting her own life to live out her own fantasies.

But how could she fall in love with anything if all she felt was sorrow?

Her heart had never ached the way it did as she wallowed in her own self pity, minute after minute, hour after hour.

But why did it hurt so badly?

Why did she dare to dream?

Why couldn't she bring herself to go home?

She dwindled on the thought.

Hermione wished she could slip away, through the cracks and into the unknown. That if - even she didn't know where she belonged - what chance did the others have of finding her?

She wished she could get down on her hands and knees and beg the grim reaper to steal her soul and set her free - because to her, anywhere was better than where she was.

On the third day, the sun rose highly into the calm, beautiful, and cloudless blue sky. The heat was indescribable - the way it cast its spell into Hermione's room and heated it up like every moment was a hot summers day.

For the past sixty-nine hours, Hermione couldn't even bring herself to shower. She barely moved and hadn't eaten in three days. She was awfully sure that if somebody were to drop her, she would shatter into a million pieces since she was so fragile.