Disclaimer- In my dreams this disclaimer says my name, but alas(earwax), I own nothing. It all belongs to the very creative JKR!
The Dark Mark on Hermione Granger's Arm
The potion quickly took effect. The woman was not feeling like herself. She watched her shaking hands. Taking a deep breath she dug her nails into her palms willing away the nausea.
The sweat began to bead on her forehead. Her commonly bushy, brown hair turned dark, long and stringy. The sweat began to trickle down her forehead. She shut her eyes as they transformed from bookish, radiant and kind irises to dark, heavily-lidded and wicked.
Darkness sidled in beside her mind. It did not touch or taint what was already there. It merely took a seat in the back, politely waiting its turn.
Suddenly, like always, all the symptoms of the Polyjuice Potion ceased. Hermione Granger opened her eyes trying to calm her tense nerves. Slowly she stood completely upright, making notes of her new perspective.
She shook out her left foot; wondering all the while how it still really belonged to her. This was not her body, therefore how could this be her leg? Yet it definitely could not be the body of the person it belonged to, as they were far away and most likely occupying it. That is unless their master (or was it her master?) had disposed of it. But that surely was not the case.
Hermione closed her eyes willing this usual debate to end. She forced herself to come to the familiar conclusion she had made about the Polyjuice Potion; that is of course that she is in fact Hermione Granger, and that only her appearance is changed.
She sighed and realized her hands were still firmly clenched. Gingerly Hermione released her fists to examine the relative damage to the skin. She took her left hand in her right palm. The pale skin was thin, yet tough. It stretched tightly over long bony fingers. The nails were short and jagged with the looks of being bitten daily. Hermione examined her palm. There were minor pits where her nails had been, and the skin was bright pink.
Moving down from her hand, her right thumb twitched at her robe sleeve. She caught her breath in her throat as her right hand slowly, almost instinctively, pushed the sleeve toward her elbow.
Hermione's eyes widened at the intricate design etched deep into the forearm. The old debate started up again; this could not be her forearm. But the darkness in the crevice of her mind stifled it.
The darkness wanted to enjoy this moment; it yearned to be near the Dark Mark. To touch it, kiss it, lick it, hold onto it forever. It was sacred to the darkness. To have it was the greatest treasure in the world.
A bubbling erupted inside Hermione. It churned within her stomach making her feel sick. It clenched at her heart, almost threatening to do away with this 'mudblood' as it should have when it had the chance.
Hermione looked aghast as her right forefinger began tracing the mark. Her finger traveled methodically about the snake. It affectionately outlined the wide-mouthed skull. The Dark Mark was faded ever-so-slightly, making it appear as if Bellatrix was born with it in her.
Hermione felt her right hand push her left arm to her face. The Dark Mark was practically shoved up her nose; it lacked the odor her mind seemed to expect. There was no power in this Dark Mark. No lingering scent of Voldemort; always so cherished.
Hermione coughed and sputtered fighting to breathe; trying to keep the small essence of Bellatrix that was in her psyche at bay.
But the darkness was already receding. It seemed frightened. It had not gotten the satisfaction it wanted. This was not a Dark Mark bestowed by Voldemort; it was a cruel trick; an illusion.
Slowly, Hermione removed her left forearm from her face. She was just about to roll up the sleeve, when Ron, Harry and Griphook appeared beside her.
Griphook gazed at Hermione intriguingly.
Harry had to look away from the accurate figure of Bellatrix as his eyes clouded with anger that he forced away with the knowledge that it was Hermione, his best friend, and not Bellatrix the murderer.
Ron looked Hermione up and down trying not to look appalled. He noticed her slightly rolled up sleeve and the visible Dark Mark. His face twisted into a look of horror, but all he could manage was a callous murmur, "Put that away, would you!"
Hermione stared at Ron a bit confounded. Looking down she realized what he meant and quickly rolled up her sleeve. "Well let's get going then," Hermione declared a bit more harshly than she had expected of herself.
The darkness was simply lending its voice, joining in on the charade. No one would believe it anyway. It was laughable really.
Hermione Granger was clever and sensible for her young years. Yet here she was degraded to playing a foolish game of dress-up. Complete with the very symbol she was rising against; engraved deeply upon her left forearm.
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