E R I N Y S
- Dim Aldebaran -
:i:
I. A L E C T O
She walks in beauty, like the night.
…and as the night, for the shadows curl in her wake, folding like kneaded dough as she passes through the corridor.
The dust is still, very still.
As Hermione walks, the lights flicker out, one by one, the flames dancing with their red scarves, then tossing them away in favor of melancholy gray.
Someone is watching her; someone old, very old, like the soul of the world. He knows she is watching him, and smiles.
She reaches a fireplace; the fire goes out, leaving the room in the darkness of the coal mine, with its slow sparkle.
"Damn," she whispers; the dust stirs, curling upwards in little wisps and tatters, like an old cloak.
She taps her wand against the wood, and it catches again. She watches the flame for a moment as it grows like a little red demon, then pulls a vial from her pocket.
She tosses it into the fire. It shatters against the back wall; it is the only loud noise she's heard in many days, and she blinks, slowly, very conscious of the act.
The flames, now green, crackles, like breaking a green-apple lollipop.
"Grimmauld Place," she says crisply, and steps into the fire.
Hours later, untended, the fire of the Gryffindor common room spreads. Hogwarts burns—
—but nobody screams.
Even the ghosts are gone, now.
II. M E G A E R A
There is blood, like a morphine drip, coming down the stairs.
She goes there first, stepping over the bodies. As she passes by, they evaporate, leaving only bloodstains on the harlequin floor. The house needs a history, after all.
It is Buckbeak; throat slit. There is a stream from his neck, gurgling gently, like a Versailles fountain.
The hallway is filled with steam, curling upwards from the blood, which pools in the cracks in long, thin red lines, like a harlot's ribbon.
She bends down and touches Buckbeak's throat. The blood seeps down the creases of her fingers to her palms until her hand is laced with red.
The stain will never come off; though she will try.
She stands up. Buckbeak disappears; after a few moments, the stream ceases (for now.)
She walks to window. Next door, some people are having a party. Laughter drifts in and drapes over her like a wet blanket.
She shivers, and, walking to the door, steps outside. There is a name on her lips, though she does not say it. Old habits die hard.
At the party, someone looks out the window. A girl stands in her nightdress; she would seem a ghost if not for the blood.
He calls the police. When they come, there is no girl. The other partygoers laugh, and suggest more Shiraz.
III. T I S I P H O N E
He is waiting for her. He is old, though he looks young now, younger than her; he has taken many lives into his own today.
She opens her mouth to speak, but there are no words. She draws her wand.
His laugh is high and sharp, like a boy's. "Must you?"
Her hand is steady. "Perhaps."
He is sprawled out on his throne, this young king, languid; but she knows better. "You were always such a silly girl. Always sure of herself until the last, eh?"
The wand quivers.
He has a goblet; he drinks from it. Blood leaks from the corner of his mouth. "Whenever you're ready."
Her hand is shaking.
The wind blows; her nightdress billows in the dark. The blood is drying.
The wand falls; the clatter echoes, once, twice, thrice.
—the abyss is deep, and she sees herself in the bottom, staring upwards as she falls.
He smirks. "I thought so."
:i:
Erinys is a title given when the three Furies (Erinyes) are combined into one, which are represented as Unnamable, Grudge, Retaliation, respectively.
This is my first venture into the HP fandom. Don't kill me, please! I wrote this in about thirty minutes in the middle of the night.
CC much appreciated. If anyone has any, feel free. I've only ever played around with the character of Hermione with my crossover The Rapunzel Complex before.
If someone is willing to beta this, I'd appreciate it as well. I've never ventured into any other fandom before, so… yeah. If there's any recommended archiving places, I'd appreciate that too. Thanks for reading!