Dreaming of Mother
Disclaimer: Well, it's here, isn't it?
Potter's mudblood friend, standing in front of the gravestone, challenging me to do my worst. The unearthly glow of an Anti-Apparition charm from the inside, visible for miles around. My wand hand, bloodless and, for some unknown reason, shaking. The Riddle House, towering above me, its shadow looming malevolently. My father's gravestone, the place where I recovered my body.
Memories attacking me, no mercy available.
"He's a strange boy, sure enough," Mrs Cole had said, once. "Rarely cried as a baby, and now… well."
Tom, listening at the door, could almost hear her shrug. This family might have adopted her, if she hadn't started blabbing. Thanks to Mrs Cole, he was now condemned to another year of Hell. At least another year.
Tom nearly wept. He wasn't the kind of boy who burst into tears at every opportunity, but this was bringing him close to the limit. Frustration and hatred had been building up in him for years, as the older children teased him and the younger children avoided him like, as the cliché went, the plague. Tom, a lonely boy at the best of times, had needed to come up with a solution, and he had.
"What was my mother like?" he had once asked Mrs Cole.
"She had brown hair. She was young. I think her name was Merope, or something."
From this vague description, Tom had succeeded in building a picture of his mother. Her voice was gentle and soft, her hair a rather wild bushy brown. Her eyes were brown too, and she had pale skin She was good at magic and both looked and sounded intelligent. She was sympathetic and patient and didn't mind listening to Tom's problems. She was optimistic, but she had a stubborn streak. She was resourceful and never gave up. She was, in fact, a dream mother.
And so, whenever Tom felt ready to give up, he took it to his mother. She always reassured him, encouraged him, told him he was special. She was wonderful.
The mudblood, Granger, glaring at me. Her bushy hair escaping from the clumsy bun she has tied it in, her eyes flashing, and her face deathly white. A thin trickle of blood dribbling down her face.
My wand is raised, but I can't cast at her. Not when she is a living, breathing replica of my dream mother.
And, apart from that, Potter is charging at me, face twisted and red in total hatred.
AN: Part 1 complete! What do you think? Part 2 is Hermione's PoV. There's flashbacks in it, too.