Disclaimer: As wonderful as it would be to have a billion euros in my bank account, I am not J.K. Rowling and do not have this money. I don't own "Harry Potter" (damn). If I did, they would all be Irish.
A/N: This story is set about five years after the defeat of Voldemort.
Hermione Granger, the witty and clever fiancée of Ronald Weasley, indulged in her secret pleasure-getting her hair cut in a muggle hairdressing salon. She could never quite let go of her muggle roots, and in her honest opinion, she thought that some things were done better without the use of magic. When she was a teenager, whenever she returned home for the Christmas and summer holidays, her mother would bring her to the local hairdressing salon. Hermione was always delighted-she loved to watch her untameable mane smooth out and become a curtain of silk-like hair. She'd run her hands through her locks for hours afterwards, amazed that it was even possible to have soft, smooth poker-straight hair without the use of magic in such a short amount of time (even with magic it was a struggle).
Hermione grinned eagerly as the little place of wonders appeared around the corner of the street. It was a brilliant day, the sun was producing its best rays and the clouds let it get on with its duty, for once. Hermione laughed in glee when she pushed open the newly painted white door and the bell chimed merrily. It truly was a fantastic place, with it bright ceiling lights and it's white walls and wooden floor. It gave an air of cleanliness that Hermione loved to feel when she entered any business.
"Hello!" her favourite hairdresser beamed at Hermione. "Would you like to take your seat?" she signalled over to the chair and basin where the process would begin.
"Perfect, thanks!" Hermione replied in anticipation, and so began her little muggle treat.
As Hermione walked out of the hairdresser's, she couldn't help but touch her soft and magnificent tresses and think about how easy it would be tomorrow morning to just run a brush through her hair, tangle-free. Delighted with herself, she decided to treat herself to an ice cream, as she used to do with her mother when she brought her to her (surprising) favourite place.
It was like a little piece of paradise.
Deciding that she couldn't possibly be happier, Hermione took a seat on a bench in the park near her house that she shared with Ron. She took in the day and its people, from the tiny toddlers sitting on the swings being pushed by their parents, to loitering youths scaring parents simply by being there. And there was the cloaked man coming straight for her.
Hermione was no fool. She knew that the man wasn't coming towards her to throw her a few chat-up lines (as wonderful as her newly straight hair was). Muggles did not walk around in cloaks, ordinarily, and didn't coincidentally come over to talk to the only wizard in the area.
Still keeping an eye on the figure, who's face was invisible, she hastily got up from the park bench and grabbed her handbag and began to walk, quickly, wherever her feet were taking her, which she realised was conveniently in the direction of her home.
At this point, Hermione remembered a scene from a movie she'd watch when she was younger, where a man stalked a woman clopping in high heels. The woman was chased down a dark alleyway and had been murdered. But Hermione was happy in the knowledge that she would not follow in the fictional woman's footsteps, as it was two in the after noon in Wales*, nor was she in high heels.
When Hermione dared to sneak a peek over her shoulder, she spied the hooded wizard whipping out his wand from beneath his cloak. Snapping her head back, she rummaged in her bag to find her own wand. Eventually clasping her fingers around her beloved stick, she realised that she had to be safe; no wizard would ever use magic in the muggle public, if they were in their right minds. To reassure herself, she surveyed the area and saw, with a growing sense of dread, that all of the muggles had inconveniently left the vicinity.
Suddenly, Hermione turned on her heels and pointed her wand at her stalker. 'Stupefy,' she thought in her head. But when the red spark flew from her wand, she realised that the man had played his own card a split second before her. As he was thrown back onto the ground, a strange, light feeling washed over her; it was a spell with which she was unfamiliar. Hermione searched her inner magic Google desperately for an answer, and when she discovered what that spell was, a feeling of pure terror encased her heart.
The spell was extremely rare; it had not been used for over a century, except by the darkest of wizards, Lord Voldemort-and even then it was so powerful that he had only ever used in the direst of situations (unfortunately for him, he'd forgotten the incantation of the spell before his demise). No other wizard should ever have known how to use it. But of course, Tom Riddle had had his ways, and, somehow, the spell must have been passed on to one of his loyalist followers.
The darkest spell of the Dark Arts, whose incantation was unknown to every single living person, bar this man here, apparently, caused a person to go mad with growing fear while it gradually killed them. There had never been a cure. Already Hermione was beginning to panic and had an almighty urge to run. Tears pricked her eyes as the urge became unbearable and she began to sprint for wherever she was going. She supposed it did not matter anymore. Only after twenty paces, Hermione's heart was thumping its last battle in her chest and her lungs were struggling to give her proper breaths. Then her legs gave up and lost their function forever, and she fell to the ground, gasping, dying.
Naturally, the fall hurt-it was a stone path-but it was insignificant compared to Hermione's fear. Almost without sight now, whether from tears or her eyes failing, she let her body do whatever it wanted to-she couldn't control it anymore. Fear had taken her place. She was a sobbing, gasping wreck in a heap on the ground. And to think-all this time she'd been 'afraid' of butterflies. At least her hair would look nice in the pictures of her lifeless body in the 'Daily Prophet'.
And then Hermione Granger made her final decision-with fear was truly the most horrible way to die, and with the knowledge that she was about to do so. Then she felt, thought and decided no more.
A/N: My original idea was to write a one-shot, but I then thought that it would indeed be possible to make this into a series of chapters. If you like this, please say so and review, because I would like to know if I should write a series-and it's nice to receive feedback on your work when you've made the effort for the adoring public!
*-Hermione and Ron had moved to Wales two months after Voldemort's defeat.