Pity The Living (Dramione)

1. The Shattered World

The world had become a shadow of its former self. Once vibrant landscapes were now cloaked in eternal twilight, a grim reminder of the day Voldemort's victory extinguished the light.

The sky was a canvas of ashen clouds, casting an omen over the desolate land below. The remnants of civilization lay in ruins, broken and abandoned as if the very soul of the wizarding world had been torn apart.

In the heart of this forsaken realm, Malfoy Manor stood as a dark monument to Voldemort's triumph. Its towering spires, once symbols of aristocratic grandeur, were now tainted by an aura of menace.

The estate's gardens, once lush and meticulously tended, had withered into a tangled mess of thorny brambles and overgrown weeds. The manor's windows were dark, void of any sign of life, save for the occasional flicker of a wand-lit candle casting eerie shadows on the stone walls.

Deep within the manor's dungeons, Hermione Granger sat chained to the cold, damp stone wall of her cell. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and despair.

Her once meticulously kept hair was now a tangled mess, and her clothes, though still intact, were stained with the grime of captivity. Her face and body were sunken and tired.

Despite her disheveled appearance, her eyes remained defiant, burning with a fierce light that had not yet been extinguished.

The memories of the battle that had led to this dire fate replayed in her mind like a relentless nightmare.

The final confrontation with Voldemort had been a scene of chaos and carnage. The ground trembled with the force of spells and curses between Harry Potter and Voldemort, the sky lit up with the eerie glow of dark magic.

The same dark magic that hit Harry Potter square in the chest on the 2nd of May 1998, after the words Avada Kedavra.

Hermione, along with everyone else- good or evil watched as The Boy Who Lived fell to his knees. But, with one last breath and a raise of his wand, Harry Potter shouted Expelliarmus and in mere moments he had the Elder Wand in his hand.

Then he closed his eyes for the final time and collapsed dead on the cold ground.

Harry Potter's death had been a shattering and pivotal blow, leaving the Order of the Phoenix in disarray, their hopes still high, but crumbling like the ruins of the once-vibrant world they fought to protect.

Hermione had fought valiantly alongside her comrades, but their efforts had been in vain. Voldemort's forces had swept through the battlefield, overwhelming the defenders with ruthless efficiency.

As the last vestiges of hope faded, Hermione had been captured, her fate sealed in the cold embrace of the Dark Lord's new order.

Her captivity had been a cruel twist of fate. Instead of a grim dungeon, she had been placed in a cell designed to break her spirit. The walls were lined with old, tattered remnants of magical artifacts—trophies of Voldemort's conquest. The iron bars of her cell were enchanted to suppress her magic, rendering her helpless against the encroaching darkness.

Hermione's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching her cell. The heavy, measured tread of someone confident and commanding.

The door creaked open, and a tall figure stepped inside, cloaked in black robes that seemed to absorb the dim light of the torches lining the corridor.

The figure was known as Deimos Phobos, a high-ranking Death Eater infamous for his cold efficiency and unyielding loyalty to Voldemort. His face was hidden beneath a hood, but Hermione could sense the intensity of his gaze as he approached. He had been given a specific set of orders regarding her—tasks that seemed deceptively simple yet were designed to ensure her complete isolation and degradation.

Deimos's presence was an unsettling reminder of her predicament. He was the one charged with her oversight, the one who was never to lose sight of her, never to reveal his true identity. Hermione had long suspected there was more to him than met the eye, but the oppressive nature of their interactions had prevented any meaningful exchanges.

He stood before her, his voice a chilling whisper that cut through the silence. "Granger," he said, the name dripping with disdain. "Another day in your cage. How does it feel to be so utterly powerless?"

Hermione met his gaze with a defiant glare. "I will never lose hope," she replied, her voice steady despite the desperation that clawed at her insides. "You may have won for now, but the fight is far from over."

Deimos's lips curled into a disdainful smile. "Hope," he said with a mocking tone. "Hope is a luxury you can no longer afford. Your world is over, Granger. The Dark Lord's reign is absolute, and there is no place for the likes of you in it."

As he turned to leave, Hermione felt the weight of his words sinking in. The world outside was indeed lost to darkness, and her captivity was a cruel reminder of that reality.

Yet, amidst the despair, a flicker of determination remained in her heart. The Order of the Phoenix might be hiding, but as long as she drew breath, there was still a chance for resistance, for rebellion.

As the door slammed shut behind Deimos, Hermione closed her eyes, drawing strength from the fleeting memories of her fallen friends and the unyielding resolve that had always defined her.

The darkness that enveloped her cell was a mere prelude to the greater battle that awaited, a battle she would face with every ounce of her spirit, no matter how bleak the world seemed.