Temptation - Dramione

Chapter 4

Hermione

A relentless week had passed since my capture, I tossed and turned every night, trying to find a way to escape. Sleep eluded me, the bed becoming a battlefield where I waged silent wars against my captors, shadows that barred my way to freedom.

Death eaters stood sentinel at every conceivable exit, a fortress of guards barricading any route to liberation. Even if I could somehow slip their grasp, I couldn't get far without a wand. I was trapped in a labyrinth of powerlessness, a prisoner of my own circumstances, and the price of escape seemed an abyss darker than death itself.

As the calendar crept to the 30th of December, I clung to scraps of information like a lifeline. The house elves, mere whispers of life in this desolate place, brought me sustenance along with the whisper of the date.

Books started to emerge alongside my meager meals, offering me an oasis of escape in the arid desert of isolation.

On that day, the plate held a scant portion of steamed vegetables: zucchinis, carrots, and yellow bell peppers. Their once-vibrant colors, usually bright green, red, and yellow, had faded into a dull and lifeless palette. Like me, they seemed drained of vitality, as if the very essence of life had been sucked out of them.

The metal fork was cold against my hand as I stabbed at the vegetables repeatedly, hoping to crush their resistance. However, they remained obstinately undercooked, their texture still hard and unyielding beneath my efforts.

As I reluctantly munched on the bland vegetables, each bite was accompanied by a disheartening crunch that echoed through the empty room. It struck me that the Malfoy's house elves were certainly capable of culinary excellence, yet they had chosen to serve this tasteless fare. It seemed like a deliberate effort to any form of remnant hope I could still harvest.

Days were pretty much the same: Mornings greeted me with the same barren room, my footsteps echoing in the hollow spaces of solitude. I became accustomed to the routine, a dance of survival in the confines of my prison. Morning hours would dissolve into afternoons where pages of the books I read turned to escape the quiet desperation. Lunch, a solitary meal, punctuated the cadence of my existence. And then the shadows would lengthen, the sun's retreat a harbinger of a more sinister presence — Bellatrix's arrival.

When night fell, Bellatrix's wicked show began. Her messed-up questions were like dripping venom, setting the stage for the impending pain that echoed through the room. There was always blood, staining the cold floor, and my agony filled the darkness. But each night, a hesitant hand reached out, like a savior lurking in the shadows.

Night after night, as Bellatrix departed, Draco would come to tend to my wounds.

Our encounters were an enigma, each exchange a tapestry woven with silences and words unsaid. Beneath the surface, an unspoken understanding bloomed.

I longed for connection, a tether to sanity amidst the madness. In these secret moments, the silent longing for companionship found solace in hushed whispers.

His presence was paradoxical, his touch both a balm for wounds and a salve for loneliness.

Draco's nights of "torture," which he wasn't very keen on, revealed a kind of duality. He just couldn't muster the will to use the dagger or any painful curses, for that matter. In his own way, he was a mirror image of the prison we were trapped in, his unwillingness to cause harm echoing my desperate yearning for freedom.

Being around him was like stumbling upon an unexpected safe haven, a delicate link that hinted at hope in the midst of all the hopelessness. Our chats were minimal, but they carried a whole lot of unspoken meaning.