Chapter 4: The Sweetness of Despair

By: NobleHouseGranger

Hermione was drifting between consciousness and the dark void of unconsciousness when the door to her cell creaked open once more. She was too weak to sit up, too drained to care who it might be. Her body was a trembling mass of pain and exhaustion, her mind barely holding onto the fragile threads of reality. The hunger and thirst had gnawed at her for days, and she was starting to lose track of what was real and what was simply the hallucinations her mind conjured to torment her.

But this time, it wasn't Dolores Umbridge who entered. The soft shuffle of footsteps, the rustle of clothing that followed, were different—familiar in a way that tugged at the edges of her memory.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder, and Hermione flinched, instinctively pulling away. But the touch was not rough or cruel. It was soft, almost tender, a stark contrast to the torment she had grown accustomed to. Hermione forced her eyes open, blinking against the dim light that filtered into the cell.

A woman knelt beside her, her face pale and drawn, her eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it seemed to radiate from her very being. Hermione stared, her muddled brain struggling to process what she was seeing.

"Mrs. Tonks?" Hermione whispered, her voice cracked and barely audible.

Andromeda flinched, a small, involuntary movement that spoke volumes. Her sad smile faltered for a moment before she quickly masked it, but the pain in her eyes remained. "It's Black now, sweetie," she said softly, her voice tinged with a bittersweet sadness. "As it should be."

Hermione's heart lurched in her chest. Andromeda—no, Mrs. Black—looked so different from the last time she had seen her. The years of loss and suffering had hollowed out the vibrant woman she once knew, leaving behind a shadow of her former self. Her once bright features were now etched with lines of grief, and her hair, now streaked with gray, hung limply around her face.

"Yes, Hermione," Andromeda continued, her voice warm and soothing, like a mother comforting a child. "It's me."

Hermione's heart twisted with confusion and sadness. Andromeda had been so strong, so determined in the face of everything she had lost. To see her now, so broken, was almost too much to bear. But the name—Black—sent a fresh wave of dread through her. It wasn't just a name. It was a symbol of the darkness that had claimed her.

"What… what are you doing here?" Hermione managed to croak out, her throat burning with the effort.

Andromeda's smile faded, replaced by a look of deep sorrow. "I'm here to help you, Hermione," she said softly, her voice gentle. She offered the girl a tiny piece of bread from her pocket, with a small flask of water. "To help you see the truth."

"The truth?" Hermione echoed, her voice barely more than a whisper. She eager consumed the substance as her mind spun, unable to keep up with what was happening. Andromeda's presence didn't make sense. None of this made sense.

"Yes, the truth," Andromeda said, her voice soft, almost pleading. "You're fighting a battle you can't win, Hermione. You're only hurting yourself by resisting. They're too powerful, too ruthless. You can't stand against them. Not alone."

Hermione's heart sank, a cold, hollow feeling settling in her chest. This wasn't the Andromeda she remembered. The Andromeda she knew would never say such things, would never give up the fight, no matter the odds. But this woman, this broken, weary woman before her, was different. She was defeated, her spirit crushed under the weight of her own despair.

"Andromeda, no," Hermione whispered, shaking her head weakly. "We can't… we can't just give up."

Andromeda's expression softened, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Hermione, please," she said, her voice breaking. "I've seen what they can do. I've felt it. They've taken everything from me, everything except Teddy. They promised… they promised to keep him safe if I—"

Her voice caught, and she took a shaky breath before continuing. "If I helped them. If I convinced you to stop fighting."

Hermione's stomach twisted with nausea, a wave of revulsion washing over her. They had broken Andromeda, used her love for her grandson as a weapon against her. They had turned her into a pawn, forcing her to do their bidding in exchange for the promise of protection for the last piece of her family.

"Andromeda… no," Hermione whispered, her heart breaking for the woman who had already lost so much.

Tears streamed down Andromeda's face as she reached out and grasped Hermione's hand in both of hers, squeezing it gently. "It's over, Hermione," she said, her voice trembling. "They're going to break you, no matter what you do. The longer you resist, the more they'll hurt you. Please, just… just give in. Save yourself the pain. Save yourself while you still can."

Hermione wanted to pull her hand away, wanted to scream at Andromeda to fight, to resist, but she couldn't find the strength. She was so tired, so weak, and Andromeda's words, her plea, cut through her like a knife. Could she really keep fighting? Could she endure more of Umbridge's twisted games, more of the unrelenting pain? The thought of surrendering, of ending the torment, was so tempting, so desperately tempting.

But even as the temptation gnawed at her, Hermione knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't give in, couldn't betray everything she had fought for, everything her friends had died for. They were counting on her, the ones who were still out there, fighting the darkness. She couldn't abandon them. She couldn't abandon herself.

"I… I can't," Hermione whispered, her voice shaking. "I can't give up."

Andromeda's face crumpled, her shoulders sagging with the weight of her grief. "Hermione, please," she begged, her voice raw with emotion. "Don't make the same mistake I did. Don't let them take everything from you."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners as she fought to hold on to her resolve. The pain, the hunger, the thirst—they were all consuming her, tearing her apart from the inside out. But she couldn't give in. She couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry."

Andromeda's grip on her hand tightened for a moment, and then she let go, pulling away as if the touch burned her. She stood slowly, her movements stiff and robotic, as if she were struggling to hold herself together.

"Dolores will be back soon," Andromeda said, her voice flat, empty. "She'll be… less kind. Please, Hermione, just think about what I've said."

With that, she turned and walked away, her steps slow and heavy. Hermione watched her go, her heart aching with the weight of what had just happened. She wanted to reach out, to call Andromeda back, to tell her that she was still strong, still a fighter. But the words wouldn't come.

The door closed behind Andromeda with a soft click, and Hermione was left alone in the darkness once more. The cell seemed to grow colder, the shadows deeper, and for a moment, she felt as if the walls were closing in around her.

As Andromeda closed the heavy wooden door behind her, the dimly lit corridor beyond seemed to stretch on forever, cold and unwelcoming. The brief flicker of warmth she had shown in Hermione's cell vanished the moment she stepped into the hallway, replaced by the steel-like resolve that had been forced upon her. She had done what was required of her, but it left a bitter taste in her mouth, one that not even the thought of her grandson's safety could fully wash away.

She took a deep breath, composing herself, but before she could take another step, she sensed the presence waiting in the shadows. A figure stepped out from the darkness, tall and imposing, her blonde hair perfectly styled, her expression a mask of cold, detached superiority.

Narcissa Malfoy.

Andromeda tensed, her muscles locking as her younger sister emerged from the gloom. Narcissa was dressed impeccably, as always, her robes flowing around her with an air of regality that belied the true nature of their interaction. She was no mere observer in this place; she was Andromeda's keeper, assigned to ensure that her older sister remained compliant, obedient—useful.

Narcissa's blue eyes were icy, assessing Andromeda with a gaze that was as much a warning as it was a command. "Did you succeed?" she asked, her voice soft but firm, leaving no room for anything less than the truth.

Andromeda nodded, a curt, jerky motion. "I did what I was asked," she replied, her tone deliberately neutral, devoid of any trace of the emotions that had stirred within her in that wretched cell.

Narcissa's lips curled into a faint smile, though it lacked any warmth. "Good. It's better that you understand your role in this, sister. We wouldn't want any… complications, now would we?"

Andromeda's jaw clenched at the condescension in Narcissa's tone, but she swallowed her anger, forcing herself to remain calm. "I know what I'm doing, Narcissa. You don't need to babysit me."

The smirk on Narcissa's face didn't fade. Instead, she took a step closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Oh, but I do, dear sister. You see, I'm here to remind you of where your loyalty should lie. To ensure that you don't forget what's at stake."

Andromeda's eyes narrowed, a spark of defiance flaring up within her. She had been forced into this position, blackmailed with the safety of her grandson, but that didn't mean she would cower before her sister. Not after everything they had been through, everything that had torn them apart.

"Don't patronize me, Narcissa," she snapped, her voice laced with bitterness. "I've done what you and your precious Dark Lord demanded. But don't think for a second that I've forgotten who I am—or who you are."

The air between them crackled with tension, the unspoken history of their fractured family hanging heavy in the air. Narcissa's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, hard expression that sent a shiver down Andromeda's spine.

"You're treading on dangerous ground, Andromeda," Narcissa hissed, her voice low and venomous. "Remember your place, sister, lest you forget who's truly in charge here."

Andromeda opened her mouth to retort, but before she could utter a word, Narcissa's hand shot out, grabbing the back of her head with a force that made her gasp. Narcissa's fingers dug into her scalp, her nails sharp against Andromeda's skin, as she yanked her closer, their faces only inches apart.

"Remember your place, sister," Narcissa repeated, her voice a cold, controlled fury. "Unless you'd prefer Bellatrix to remind you instead. And we both know how much she enjoys… reminding."

Andromeda's breath hitched at the mention of Bellatrix, the one sister who had truly embraced the darkness that had poisoned their family. She could see it in Narcissa's eyes—the threat wasn't an idle one. Bellatrix would relish the chance to "correct" her, to take whatever pleasure she could in inflicting pain. Andromeda knew that all too well.

She forced herself to meet Narcissa's gaze, swallowing the surge of fear that threatened to overwhelm her. "I know my place," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, though she hated herself for it. "I won't forget."

Narcissa's grip on her hair tightened for a moment, and then, just as suddenly, she released her, shoving Andromeda back with a sneer of disdain. "See that you don't," she said, her tone icy. "For Teddy's sake, if not your own."

Andromeda straightened, brushing her hair back into place with shaking hands, her eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and resignation. "I've done what you asked," she repeated, more for her own benefit than Narcissa's. "Now leave me and my grandson alone."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on her lips once more. "Of course, sister," she said smoothly. "But remember—your compliance is the only thing keeping Teddy safe. Don't mistake my leniency for weakness. One wrong step, and you'll answer to me. Or worse, to Bellatrix."

Andromeda didn't respond. She simply nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line as she turned away, walking down the corridor with as much dignity as she could muster. She could feel Narcissa's gaze boring into her back, a reminder that she was never truly free, never truly safe.

As she rounded the corner, out of sight of her sister, Andromeda let out a shuddering breath, her hands trembling uncontrollably. The fear, the anger, the helplessness—all of it churned inside her, threatening to spill over. But she couldn't afford to lose control. Not now. Not ever.

For Teddy. She had to stay strong for Teddy.

And she had to hope that, somehow, Hermione would find the strength to resist. Find a way to keep herself out of the dark's clutches, even if it meant finding sanctuary in death.

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Next chapter preview:

At first, it was subtle. A flicker in the eyes, a shift in the expression. But then, slowly, the reflection twisted into something else entirely. The Hermione in the mirror straightened, her posture becoming rigid, commanding. Her eyes darkened, taking on a cruel gleam that sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. The corners of her mouth curled into a sneer, a mocking, twisted version of the smile she had once worn.

"You think you're strong, don't you?" the reflection said, its voice a distorted echo of her own. "You think you can resist them. But you're fooling yourself. You've always been weak, Hermione. Always desperate to prove yourself, to be something more than you are."

Hermione's breath hitched in her throat, her hands trembling at her sides. "That's not true," she whispered, though the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

The reflection's sneer widened, its eyes narrowing with cruel amusement. "Isn't it? You've always been so desperate to be the best, to outshine everyone else. You used your intelligence as a shield, but it was never enough, was it? You were never enough."

Hermione took a step back, shaking her head as if she could shake away the words. "Stop it," she said, her voice trembling. "You're not real. You're just—"

"Just a reflection?" the twisted version of herself interrupted, its voice dripping with mockery. "I'm more real than you want to admit. I'm the part of you that you try so hard to bury, the part you can't stand to look at. The part that knows the truth."