Hermione had lost the ability to discern dreams from reality. One moment she truly believed that she would wake up to the soft breathing of Luna in bed next to her, the salty wind playing with the sheer drapes. She would feel the warmth and see the pure sinlight playing behind her eyelids, all the while snug underneath the patchwork quilt covering her through the dry night. It was a new day, dawn not too far behind, fresh coffee and fruits would be waiting for her downstairs. She let out a contented sigh, shaking the sleep from her senses.

And when she opened her eyes, she thought she must have gone blind from the darkness in her dungeon cell.

This was the worse torture of all. Hermione wasn't sure if it was Lestrange's doing, or her own mind simply trying to drive her into an insane inexistence. The worst part about it all, wasn't distinguishing the reality, it was deciding on if the reality was where she wanted to be.

Hermione's bruised and scarred form would be a harsh site in the light of day, she was certain. The torture sessions only ended with a light healing, enough to make sure that nothing would be lethal, and then that was that as far as medical attention was concerned. It was interesting how little it took to keep a human being alive.

The cot was nothing more than a strip of canvas across a board. She slowly rose up from her makeshift bed, and paced the nearly pitch room. She couldn't really tell how long she had been down here; there was literally no way to distinguish the time. Her only company would be Bellatrix for their spontaneous torture sessions, and a mute house elf who brought her meager portions of food to sustain her self through her next round with the elf's master. She had tried profusely to communicate with the small elf, but she was simply faced with a tightly shut mouth and a fear in the creature's eyes at disobeying Bellatrix. Eventually Hermione took pity on the creature, lest it hurt itself for event thinking of putting a toe out of line.

She had walked rings around this room, desperately trying to find any way out, any since of light or day, anything to prove to her she wasn't in an oversized coffin. The only thing she was constantly greeted with, was that same jagged crevice she first discovered, marring the wall which she was tortured against on a regular basis. It was the only other thing in the room besides herself, the cot, and the toilet. She would stare at that gash, knowing there was just something about it. It was something important. There was something she was missing.

Why was it there? Why wouldn't Lestrange fix the ugly thing, unless maybe it couldn't be fixed? What had it come from?

The questions. They became the only thing she could do to take her mind off of the pain. Unfortunately they ripped at her in an entirely different way.

Bellatrix had come back too many times to count; each time would be a routine. She would start off with more basic curses, and when Hermione was on her knees, trying to keep consciousness she would begin to speak. It was the last time she had come down to her tomb that had been just the slightest bit different; Hermione spoke back.

"Filthy mudpuppy enjoying her stay? I wonder how long it will be before you try to kill yourself. Weak beings, you muggles are, I honestly didn't even give you this long." Bellatrix took a leather booted foot, and barely kicked Hermione's side, making her limply fall onto her back. It was where she belonged, submissively staring up at her Pureblood superior with tears in her eyes.

"Well since you've held out for so long, I suppose I can give you a treat."

Hermione snapped out of her haze, her lifeless fog breaking with the idea of an answer to the many questions she had piercing her brain ever so painfully.

"Will she want to know where she is? Or maybe, how long she has been rotting here? What will become of her?" Bellatrix had a mocking pout, but she knew what this was. This was simply another form of torture for the young woman who craved knowledge more than air. And that is exactly why she did this.

"Come now, Muddy, ask what you want before I change my mind."

Hermione's throat constricted. Those were all questions she was dying to know, ones she never thought she would have the answer to. Now though, they all stood within her grasp and yet she was so very limited, it was almost more maddening than not knowing….Suddenly the real question she had been dying to ask burned onto her lips like fire. She may never forgive herself for what she was about to do, but the repercussions just had to be worth the risk.

"What happened to make that gash there on the wall?"

The look on Bellatrix's face was difficult to describe. There was an anger, mixed with a look of surprise at such and unexpected chance apparently squandered by the young woman in front of her to learn anything about her current status. And yet underneath all of that was a slight look of anguish. Her countenance held it well, but a sorrow, and a fear delicately played underneath the piercing black eyes.

"That's all that's left of the last girl to cross the Dark Lord, you filthy Mudblood."

She disapperated with a pop, not even attempting to continue her usual dark games with Hermione.

She stared at the gash for what felt like hours. Time being relative wherever she was, she could very well have spent the entire day facing the dark crack in the wall. It was deep, penetrating the stone in a way that only a powerful tool, or spell could have driven.

There was a feeling of truth behind what Bellatrix had said. She believed that indeed, this was something that had happened to someone who perhaps foolishly crossed Voldemort. But even then, what did he do to leave such a blemish? What happened to the victim?

The answer to her question only brought about even more curiosities, both driving her mad while simultaneously being the ones that were acting as her only means of survival. She needed answers, ergo she needed to live in order to see those answers out. Was the mark there because it was a cursed spot? Hermione stood up and approached the gash. She didn't feel anything particularly forboding, as one often would in a cursed space. Even touching the mark itself, she felt nothing but the cold stone and chipped fragments of granite. If it isn't a cursed mark, it should be easily repairable, so why not fix it?

A dim realization crept up on the battered girl, she backed slowly from the wall.

Perhaps, it's a reminder.

Bellatrix slammed the vase into the fire, the painted ceramic sending sparks of blues and greens all about. She paced the Library, her mind racing with so many things at once she couldn't even begin to sit still.

That Mudblood was either too curious, or too clever to be allowed to live. Any other question.

She could have even asked about her wand.

But no, the muddy little trollop finds the one weakness in her little game. She ruined it. And now Bellatrix was left to figure out the next course of action.

The brat had been in her possession for about a week now. The papers were littered with conspiracies on both sides, though since Voldemort pretty much owned the ministry and every propaganda piece that was distributed, it was mostly praise for the witch's suspected capture. The little leaks she had let spill served its purpose, however, she would be able to bait the others with this little witch, and then she could silence her admittedly brilliant little mind for good.

It was the thought of waiting out her plan which made her cringe.

She wouldn't be able to keep her prisoner in that dungeon for much longer, not when she was figuring things out. And since killing her was obviously out of the currently available list of options, relocation would have to do. Perhaps then the brat would stop trying to figure everything out.