Mudblood Reeducation Camp

Chapter 3

The darkness had become her world. Time no longer mattered—only the relentless cycle of waking and drifting off into a fitful sleep, plagued by fevered dreams that blurred the line between reality and the horrors of her mind. Hunger gnawed at her, a constant, vicious companion that twisted her insides and made every breath a laborious effort. Thirst was a crueler master, leaving her tongue swollen, her throat raw, and her thoughts muddled with desperation.

In the suffocating silence of the cell, Hermione's mind began to turn against her. The walls seemed to pulse and close in, the stone floor beneath her no longer felt solid but fluid, shifting like quicksand beneath her. She tried to focus, to hold on to something real, but the world around her was slipping through her fingers, becoming something strange, something unrecognizable.

It started with whispers, faint and distant, like echoes in the dark. She thought at first it was the wind, but there was no wind here, no breeze to carry sound through the still, stagnant air. The whispers grew louder, more distinct, until they were all around her, overlapping and intertwining in a chaotic symphony that made her head throb.

She strained to catch the words, to make sense of the voices, but they slipped away, just beyond her grasp. They were familiar, though—hauntingly familiar, like a memory just out of reach. And then, slowly, the voices began to take shape, to form into words, sentences, names.

"Hermione..."

She flinched at the sound of her name, her heart skipping a beat. She wasn't alone anymore. There was someone here with her, someone in the darkness. Her breath quickened, her pulse racing with a mix of fear and hope. Was it real? Was someone really here to help her?

"Why didn't you save us, Hermione?"

The voice was soft, but the accusation was sharp, cutting through her like a blade. She knew that voice—knew it as well as her own. She turned her head, squinting into the darkness, trying to see, trying to find the source of the voice. But there was nothing there, only the shadows that danced and flickered at the edges of her vision.

"Ron?" she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and lanky, with a shock of red hair and eyes that were filled with a sadness that made her chest tighten. Ron Weasley stood before her, his face pale and drawn, his clothes torn and bloodstained. He looked like he had on that day—no, it wasn't possible. He couldn't be here. He was—

"Dead," Ron said, as if reading her thoughts. His voice was hollow, empty. "I'm dead because of you, Hermione."

Hermione recoiled, shaking her head, trying to deny the words, but they echoed in her mind, relentless. "No, no, it's not true," she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. "I—I tried to save you. I did everything I could."

Ron's face twisted into a grimace, his eyes narrowing with anger. "Everything you could? You left us, Hermione. You left me to die."

The accusation hit her like a physical blow, and she doubled over, gasping for breath. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. But the words, the look in Ron's eyes—they burrowed into her mind, feeding on her guilt, on her fear. She had always blamed herself for what had happened, for the friends she had lost, but hearing it, seeing it—it was too much.

"You could have saved us," another voice said, soft and gentle, but laced with disappointment. Hermione looked up, her vision blurred with tears, and saw another figure standing beside Ron.

Luna Lovegood, her silvery-blonde hair hanging limp around her shoulders, her eyes wide and sad. Luna, who had always been a beacon of light, now stood before her like a ghost, her expression one of quiet reproach.