Prince of snakes | Dramione

Chapter 20

Hermione had always possessed a certain ease in deciphering truth from falsehood and dissociating nightmares from the present. But right now, she wasn't sure if she had the guts to face reality. Nevertheless, she opened her eyes, her body trembling with pain. She couldn't play dead forever. Not in this position. And certainly not when McGonagall was groaning in agony.

If the young woman found herself in a more idyllic situation, she would surely take the time to observe the surroundings, light a few candles, and dust off a book to settle in comfortably. But she was captive. Plunged into a dungeon with a stench haunting the four walls that held her prisoner, she could only shudder in horror.

The room that greeted her was dark, and only sporadic sparks of red light added a semblance of brightness to the hall. Hermione took some time before understanding that the red flashes were curses aimed at the Hogwarts headmistress. The moans and clatters echoed in a terrible symphony. She was tempted to cover her ears, her heart pounding frantically in her chest.

With dilated pupils, Hermione contemplated the bars that served as her palace. She found herself in a cage of rusty iron, where droplets of blood littered the floor as if it were a child's decoration. She swallowed hard. Her skull screamed with pain, and as she placed her small hand against her tangled mane, she groaned. Her hand was bloody.

"Damn it," she muttered, becoming aware of the dreadful situation she was in.

In addition to being locked up, chains restrained her feet, keeping her against the hard concrete surface. When a new whimper was heard, Hermione snapped out of her torpor. Minerva was lying on a stone table, her limbs bound.

Hermione tried to think, panic surging through every cell of her body. What could she do? Her vision, previously blurred, managed to capture the features of her former professor. With closed eyes, she endured torment, lips pursed. There was no soul living outside their presence. Electric shocks struck the wrists of the forty-year-old woman in bursts of horrifying cries.

The individual who had captured them had deserted the place, as if they were just crushable mosquitoes.

"Miss Granger," whispered McGonagall with a subdued voice.

"What can I do?" she croaked, completely helpless. She gripped the bars of her prison, a pain irradiating in her skull. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault. It's all my fault."

Minerva remained silent, her breathing wheezing, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Everything will be fine," promised the headmistress.

Hermione couldn't swallow the lie, her throat tightening with guilt. She should have listened to McGonagall when there was still time. Maybe she could have signaled Professor Slughorn. Maybe they wouldn't be in this situation now, despair shaking their now weakened bodies. She hiccuped in fear.

Pull yourself together, Hermione, she cursed herself quietly, her brain boiling. There had to be a solution.

When the sound of boots echoed on the stairs of the secret tavern, the young Gryffindor held her breath.

"Hermione, don't make any moves that could put you in danger. Is that clear?"

Minerva's voice echoed in her mind, but she wasn't receptive. She no longer heard the pain in McGonagall's tone. She only saw the angular shape of a person clad in a black cape approaching stealthily. The individual's face was covered, and the silhouette almost seemed familiar to her.

"The sleeping beauty has finally awakened," whispered the sweet and acidic voice.

Hermione shuddered. Minerva tried to sit up, but the restraints tightened, making her groan in pain.