Twenty-seven days go by since Hermione was first captured, by her count. They are all the exact same in essence since she left the dungeons, and they all drag by with deadening monotony. She no longer has the energy to be truly afraid, or hopeful, or homesick. She feels all these things constantly, but never with any real strength; they are simply the weary background noise to what her existence has become. It is hard to sustain any kind of intensity of feeling when there is no end to anything, when there is no brave escape to keep her going, no possibility of rescue to buoy her up. This is limbo, Hermione tells herself as she stares unseeingly down at the book in her lap. This is purgatory, and she despises it. She is sick of it, of feeling nearly nothing but a hollowed out, aching emptiness. She wants to scream, to scream and rage and tear things apart, because beneath the emptiness that is drowning her, there is a deep wellspring of suppressed, desperate anger.