Manacled

The oppressive darkness had become Hermione's only companion, a suffocating blanket woven from sixteen months of sensory deprivation. She had long abandoned the futile hope of her eyes adjusting; there was no moonlight, no torchlight, only the profound, suffocating black of the dungeons.

Her fingertips had meticulously mapped every cold, damp inch of her cell—the unyielding, magic-sealed door, the rough straw, the perpetually damp chamber pot. The air, stale and lifeless, offered no clue to the outside world. She had searched for a loose stone, a forgotten nail, anything to mark time or forge a desperate escape, but found nothing.

Nothing but darkness, and the chilling memory of Umbridge’s final, whispered word: "Silencio."

Then, a distant screech, a door long abandoned groaning open. And light. A blinding, agonizing flash that felt like knives tearing at her eyes. She recoiled, scrambling into the furthest corner, shielding her face with trembling hands. "She's still alive," Umbridge's voice, surprisingly shocked, cut through the pain. "Get her up, let's see if she's still lucid."

Rough hands seized her, trying to pry her arms away. The sudden brightness was unbearable, searing her retinas even through squeezed lids. She fought back, desperate to keep the agony at bay, tearing free from their grasp. "Oh, Merlin's sake," Umbridge snapped, impatience lacing her sickly sweet voice. "Overpowered by a wandless Mudblood. Petrificus Totalus."

Hermione’s body stiffened, mercifully her eyes remained closed. "You should have been smart enough to die. Crucio."