For 30+ Advance/Early chapters :p
atreon.com/ScoldeyJod
The silence in the aftermath was more terrifying than any scream. Hermione remained frozen on the obsidian floor, the inert chalk runes mocking her failure. The void inside her was no longer just an absence of power; it was a physical presence, a cold, heavy stone in her gut that seemed to suck all the warmth from her body. The ravenous hunger she'd felt moments ago had subsided into a dull, gnawing ache, a constant reminder of her new, horrifying reality.
She didn't know how long she stayed there, caught between the sheer intellectual disbelief and the visceral, soul-deep panic. Hours bled into one another. The floating candles flickered and died, one by one, plunging the cavernous room into a profound darkness that was a perfect mirror for the emptiness within her. She finally stumbled out of the Room of Requirement as the first grey, watery light of dawn began to creep through the castle's high windows.
Every step back towards her private quarters—a privilege granted to her as a resident post-graduate researcher—was an exercise in agony. The ambient magic of Hogwarts, once a comforting, ever-present hum at the edge of her senses, was now utterly silent to her. She was deaf to the castle's ancient song. The portraits she passed watched her with painted eyes, their whispers sounding like the rustling of dry leaves, but their usual magical shimmer and movement seemed muted, distant. It was as if she were looking at the world through a thick pane of glass. She was a ghost in her own home.
Once inside her room, she collapsed into a chair, her body trembling with a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. Her mind, her greatest asset, was racing, trying to categorize, analyze, and solve the problem, but it kept hitting the same terrifying wall: she was broken.
The word echoed in her thoughts. Squib.
A wave of nausea washed over her. To be rendered magically inert was a fate she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy. To have tasted the glorious, infinite wellspring of magic, to have shaped reality with her will and words, and then to have it all snatched away… it was a death of the soul.
Refusing to accept it, she raised a trembling hand. "Lumos," she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. She pushed with all her will, focusing on the memory of light, on the familiar surge of energy that should have answered her call.
Nothing.
Not a spark. Not a flicker. The familiar warmth that always preceded a spell was absent. Her hand remained just a hand, her words just empty sounds. She tried again, desperation making her voice sharp. "Lumos!"
The silence that answered was absolute. It was the final, undeniable proof. The ritual hadn't just failed; it had scoured her clean. Tears of pure, unadulterated despair welled in her whiskey-colored eyes, and for the first time since the war, Hermione Granger truly wept. She cried for the girl who had discovered a world of wonder, for the woman who had fought to protect it, and for the scholar who had, in her arrogant reach for more, lost everything.
She must have drifted into an exhausted, dreamless sleep in the chair, because the next thing she knew, a firm, repeated knocking was rattling her door.
"Hermione?" Harry's voice, muffled by the thick oak, was laced with concern. "Hermione, are you in there? You missed breakfast. McGonagall was asking after you."
She shot upright, her heart pounding. Harry. She couldn't let him see her like this. She couldn't bear the pity in his eyes when he found out. "I'm fine, Harry!" she called out, trying to force strength into her voice and failing miserably. "Just… overslept! I was up late studying."
The lie tasted like ash in her mouth.
"I'm not leaving until I see you're okay," he insisted, his loyalty as stubborn and unshakable as ever. "You sound awful."
With a sigh of resignation, she dragged herself to her feet. Her reflection in the mirror was shocking. Her vibrant curls were limp and lifeless, her skin was pale and drawn, and dark, bruised-looking circles hung beneath her eyes. She looked haunted. She felt haunted. Taking a moment to compose herself, she opened the door.
Harry stood there, his green eyes immediately scanning her with worry. His familiar, untidy black hair was the same as ever, and the faint scar on his forehead was a symbol of a power she could no longer comprehend.
"Merlin's beard, Hermione," he breathed, his expression confirming her fears. "You look like you've been wrestling a Dementor. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I'm just tired," she mumbled, trying to sidestep him. "I need to get to the library."
But Harry, ever the protector, moved to block her path, his concern overriding her protests. He reached out and placed a hand on her arm to steady her, his touch warm and firm.
"You're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on. You're ice cold."
The moment his skin made contact with hers, the world tilted on its axis.
It wasn't a jolt like static electricity. It was something far more profound, a sensation so alien and so potent that it stole the breath from her lungs. From his hand, a tiny, almost imperceptible trickle of pure, golden energy flowed into her. It was warm, vibrant, and tasted of sunlight, courage, and unwavering loyalty. It was the very essence of Harry's magic.
The stream of power was infinitesimally small, a mere whisper of his vast reserves, but where it touched the aching void inside her, something miraculous happened. The gnawing hunger didn't vanish, but for one blissful, crystalline second, it quieted. The crushing weight in her gut lessened by a fraction. It was like a single drop of cool water on the tongue of a woman dying of thirst in the desert. It wasn't nearly enough to save her, but it was enough to remind her of what water tasted like.
Her gasp was sharp and audible. Instinct took over, a primal, reflexive action she couldn't control. She snatched her arm away from his touch as if she'd been burned, stumbling back a step.
Harry looked startled, his hand still hovering in the air. "Hermione? What is it? Did I hurt you?"
"No," she said, her voice shaking. She couldn't look him in the eye. Her mind was a maelstrom of confusion and a terrifying, dawning horror. "No, I just… I need to be alone, Harry. Please."
Seeing the genuine panic in her eyes, he finally relented, though his expression was now filled with deep, wounded confusion. "Alright," he said slowly. "Alright, Hermione. But we're talking about this later."
She didn't wait for him to finish. She practically slammed the door in his face, leaning her full weight against it, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she felt it might break them.
She stared down at her arm, at the spot where he had touched her. The skin still tingled with a phantom warmth. Her mind, that brilliant, logical, analytical engine, was finally putting the pieces together.
The crimson light of the ritual. The violation of an energy that felt predatory. The resulting void, the gnawing hunger. The utter failure of her own magic. And now… this. The spark. The transfer of energy upon physical contact.
It was impossible. It was insane. It defied every known law of magical theory.
But it was the only explanation that fit the facts.
The ritual hadn't disconnected her from magic. It had fundamentally altered her relationship with it. It had broken her own wellspring and, in its place, had opened a siphon. She couldn't generate her own magic anymore.
The chilling, horrifying realization settled over her, cold and sharp as a shard of ice in her heart. She couldn't create magic. She had to take it.
The ritual hadn't made her a Squib. It had turned her into a parasite.
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