Hermione Granger

Within the sterile white cell, Hermione Granger huddled, a ghost of her former self. Her once vibrant hair, now a tangled, matted ruin, framed a face etched with a haunting, vacant intensity. Her skin, a canvas of self-inflicted wounds, bore the raw, crimson testament to a mind unraveling. A constant, low murmur filled the room, a chilling litany of numbers and arcane symbols, the remnants of a brilliance twisted into madness. Each muttered calculation echoed the phantom screams of another time, another torture, a stark reminder of Bellatrix Lestrange's cruel artistry.