Mudblood Reeducation Camp

Chapter 2: The First Lesson

Hermione had lost count of the days. Time had become an endless, formless void in the darkness of her cell, marked only by the gnawing hunger in her belly and the parched dryness of her throat. They hadn't fed her since that first, brutal encounter. Not a morsel of food, not a drop of water. The starvation was as much a weapon as the curses had been, eating away at her strength, her will, her very sanity.

She lay curled on the cold stone floor, too weak to move, too exhausted to even think clearly. The thirst was maddening, her lips cracked and bleeding, her tongue swollen and dry as dust. Her stomach twisted and growled, but there was nothing left to give, only the hollow ache that gnawed at her insides.

She had tried to stay strong, tried to keep her mind sharp, but the deprivation had worn her down, layer by layer, until she was a shell of herself. She had fought against the darkness, but now it was seeping in, filling the empty spaces inside her with despair.

The door to her cell creaked open, the sound grating in the silence. Hermione barely reacted, too tired to lift her head, too weak to brace herself for whatever was coming. The light from the corridor spilled in, dim and sickly, casting long, wavering shadows on the walls.

Dolores Umbridge stepped into the room, her presence as oppressive as the darkness that surrounded them. She moved with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment, her eyes gleaming with that familiar, twisted pleasure. There was no Bellatrix this time—just Umbridge, alone, her expression one of cruel anticipation.

Hermione tried to push herself up, but her arms gave out, and she collapsed back onto the floor, her body trembling with the effort. The strength that had carried her through so many battles, so many horrors, had abandoned her, leaving her helpless and vulnerable at the feet of the woman she despised most in the world.

Umbridge's lips curled into a sickeningly sweet smile, the kind that had once sent shivers down the spines of Hogwarts students. "Oh, Miss Granger," she cooed, her voice dripping with false concern. "You look absolutely dreadful. They really should be feeding you, shouldn't they? But then again, perhaps this is exactly what you need to help you see reason."

Hermione didn't respond. She couldn't. Her mouth was too dry, her throat too raw to form words. All she could do was stare up at Umbridge, her vision swimming with the effort to focus, her body screaming for the sustenance it had been denied.

Umbridge crouched down beside her, close enough that Hermione could smell the faint, cloying scent of her perfume—roses and something bitter beneath, like rotting fruit. "You're a smart girl, Miss Granger," she continued, her tone that of a teacher explaining a lesson to a particularly slow student. "You must realize by now that resistance is pointless. You're alone here. No one is coming to save you. No one even knows you're here."

Hermione's heart ached at the truth of it. She was alone, completely and utterly. There was no plan, no backup, no allies to call upon. The war had taken so much from them all, and now she was the one paying the price for her defiance. But even in her weakened state, even as despair threatened to swallow her whole, she clung to the one thing they couldn't take from her—her will. As long as she had that, she wasn't completely beaten.

But Umbridge was patient. She saw the flicker of resistance in Hermione's eyes, and her smile widened, becoming a twisted parody of itself. "I admire your stubbornness, Miss Granger, truly I do. But you must understand that stubbornness can be...painful."

With a slow, deliberate motion, Umbridge reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, silver flask. She unscrewed the cap, and the scent of water—cool, clean, refreshing—filled the air, making Hermione's parched throat ache with longing. She hadn't realized how badly she wanted it until that moment, hadn't understood just how close she was to breaking until the possibility of relief was dangled in front of her like a lifeline.