A/N: DAMN IT! I wrote another story like this first (4000+ unfinished) when BAM!, I realise this is the better plot :(
This is the first Harry Potter story I've ever written, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it (hopefully, even more).
Please tell me whether you like it or not, this is actually the most I've ever written in a chapter, and I would've extended it but I didn't want to drag it on for too long. Thanks for reading, and please review thanks! x
The pairings that may be featured include: DEFINITE Tom/Hermione, SLIGHT Draco/Hermione, and more, so... have fun!
I do not own Harry Potter nor any of its characters, nor do i intend to make profit from this.
Chapter One: What the Water Gave Me
"Time it took us
To where the water was
That's what the water gave me
And time goes quicker
Between the two of us
Oh, my love, don't forsake me
Take what the water gave me."
- What the Water Gave Me, Florence + the Machine
.
.
.
She didn't know what to do.
So she escaped.
To where, she wasn't certain, but all she needed to know was that she needed to get out, get out, get out. With no particular destination, and the stars above being her only companion in the dead, quiet night, Hermione ran, adrenaline pumping in her chest, anger surging through her veins. It was a cold, bitter night out in Hogsmeade, signally the ever-approaching winter to come. But she didn't care. She was going to escape her fate, and there was no changing her mind about it.
Dressed in nothing more than a thin white cotton nightdress and her hair still tangled and unruly as it always was, Hermione pushed forth, determined to make it to the next village closest to her own. She must've looked ridiculous, wearing nothing more than a thin nightdress and bare feet that crunched upon the snow, but she didn't care. She had to get out, if it was the last thing she was doing.
It was no problem making her way through the deathly darkness of the night. She'd made these nightly ventures before, when she was much too bored to be holed up in her stuffy home, venturing through the once terrifying and mystifying dark for adventure and to quench her ever-present thirst for knowledge. It was pleasant sometimes, running off from home at the dead of night to gaze at the giant, towering willow trees and the now icy expanse of the village's lake.
Tripping on a wayward dead branch, she felt herself collide and make impact with the icy snow before pushing herself back up again. No, she was not going to allow anything to stop her. She was getting out and that was the only thing pushing her.
Though, even now, Hermione felt the anger alleviate itself from herself as she observed her surroundings. The lamps glowing in the dark like giant fireflies, the beautiful silver lanterns of stars set out across the velvet black sky. What others feared Hermione was drawn to. Naturally, of course, Hermione found evil abhorrent and repulsive, but still... there was something that the night's darkness offered which attracted Hermione even closer to it. Like a moth to the flame, they'd said. Her parents had always remarked that one day that odd characteristic of her's would get her into trouble, to which she'd flippantly retaliate as pure nonsense and superstition.
Now, the cold was really getting to her, and her muscles were aching from the chill as the surface of her flesh erupted with goosebumps. What had once been coursing through her veins as adrenaline was now replaced with weariness and exhaustion. Slowing down to a stop, Hermione caught her breath as relief flooded her when she realise where she was: the cemetery.
Hermione felt the dread in her heart lift as she reached the graveyard just outside the small village. She was shivering, and her toes were freezing from the fact that she had stupidly gone barefoot, but she didn't care. Though the graveyard was usually regarded as gloomy and despairing place, Hermione didn't believe so. In fact, if anything, she was intrigued with the names etched on each of the stones, and had often delighted in her younger years copying down the names only to look up who they were in heavy tomes in the local library.
Absent-mindedly, Hermione let her fingers trace across the engraved letters in the tombstone as her mind wandered to more pressing matters. Now that she was relaxed and in a much more calm state, she felt ready to think about the very thing that had driven her out of the village she once called 'home'.
She was getting married.
And worse, against her will.
To a monster.
His name, sheimparted bitterly, was Draco Malfoy.
And he was an absolute prat.
He was beautiful, of course; platinum blonde hair, stormy grey eyes and perfectly sculpted aristocratic features, but Hermione could see none of it (when one was blinded with incredible bias and rage towards another, it was perfectly understandable). Instead, all she could see through her vision was a pale-eyed, pallid-faced git with a sneer only a mother could love.
In short, he was horrendous. And a complete and utter twat.
It went unsaid that Draco Malfoy had it all - looks (with the exception of Hermione), money, fame and most importantly pure blood. Born from a prestigious, ancient and well-off family with an enormous estate and an incredible amount of wealth to his name, Draco Malfoy was considered one of the prime candidates any parent would desire to be married to their daughters. Any woman would be lucky to marry him, many would agree fervently.
Hermione was a rare exception.
For years, she'd been tormented by him - humiliated for her blood status, mocked for her bookwormish tendencies, teased for her bushy hair, jeered at for her choice in friends. "A filthy little mudblood, that's all that she is," he'd sneer indignantly, as his friends laughed along with him, "doesn't deserve to live in a village like Hogsmeade."
So it didn't make sense at all in Hermione's logical state of mind why on earth, on the day Ron had promptly decided to break up with her, why he, of all people, had dared show up on her doorstep to propose to her.
She didn't understand. For once in her life, Hermione had no answers.
"Granger," he muttered gruffly, arrogantly, "I'm asking you to marry me."
Nonetheless, it wasn't really her decision, for if it was, she wouldn't have ended up where she was now - cold, in a cemetery in the dead of night.
It was her mother's and father's.
And they'd agreed right away.
She couldn't blame them, of course. They were desperate. All the parents were, to get their daughters betrothed before the official start of winter. Rushed and impromptu elopings, engagements and weddings were not an uncommon (though frowned upon) occurrence during this time especially.
All because of him.
Lord Voldemort.
For though Hogsmeade seemed like a perfectly innocent village, with its much-loved Honeydukes and its famed belly-warming Butterbeer, it had a secret, a deep, dark, and terrible secret.
Beneath the surface of the ice, slept a beast.
But that wasn't the true horror of the village. It was the one who ruled it.
Voldemort.
It was a tale long told by generation to generation, one which had instilled fear and terror in the hearts of all who knew it.
Or, for the likes of others, had been victims to it themselves.
It was a story from many ages passed, back in the days when Hogsmeade had just been established.
Hogsmeade was a remarkable village with a history spanning the centuries, established by four of the most brilliant alchemists and minds of their time: Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin. Incorporating their energies, called by some villagers as 'magic', the village propsered and grew in considerable size. Prospering under the four of them, the village rose to be one of the most wealthy and extravagant villages of them all across the nation, hailed for its abundant crops and ever-advancing technologies and science. Soon enough, many of the villagers who had descended from the four themselves had the magic too within them, while others, whose parents had simply been exposed to the magic in the village for almost all their lives gave birth to children too who possessed such magic, despite no relation to any of the Founding Four at all. Though the citizens could not even harness their magic, it was still a considered a blessing to even obtain such a power at all.
Yet, despite all the great things the community of the village had achieved, magic or no magic, dispute over who should reside in the village arose, namely between Salazar and Godric. Salazar argued that, only the purest of them all, directly descended from the Founding Four themselves, should thrive in the village, while all those who had simply migrated there should be banished immediately. Naturally, ever-compassionate and honorable Godric disagreed.
Conflict arose. Many people suffered and died, and the once peaceful village deteriorated into nothing more than a battlefield drenched in blood and the scent of rotting corpses. Yet, in the end, good prevailed. Godric had triumphed.
However, Salazar was not finished. Bitter with defeat and forced to leave the very thing he had helped build, Salazar left one last mark on the little village of Hogwarts: a curse.
Cursing the village and all who had dared opposed him, the beast, known only as the serpentine Basilisk, was cast into existence, born to sleep beneath the ice and rock of the ground, wielding immense powers capable of obliterating all into oblivion.
But, there was a catch. Salazar, who by then, was an elderly man who had been superbly weakened by his struggles against Godric and his comrades, had no power to control the Basilisk. Instead, he made a prophecy: that only the true heir of Slytherin, Ruler of the Serpents, would possess the power to wield the Basilisk as their greatest weapon, and only then would all the mudbloods be wiped into extinction.
And, with those parting words, he died.
Hermione had never really put much stock into this final part in the fable, despite how seriously her fellow villagers took it, to the point of making ritual sacrifices and offerings to the beast itself. She'd found it morbid, even, how straight after the villagers had banded together to even ruthlessly murder Slytherin's last remaining relatives, the Gaunts. She'd regarded it as pure bullocks, simply a tale for parents to warn children from falling into naughty behaviour. "Be good," they'd say, "or the Basilisk will surely eat you up." It was simply a folk-tale to her, nothing less.
She was wrong.
It was a few years ago, when people started disappearing: muggleborns like her, mostly. Soon enough, one turned to five, five turned to ten, ten to twenty, which exploded to fifty. Livestock, too, began vanishing without a trace.
Soon, a devastating famine swept the village. Crops were mysteriously burnt to nothing more than cinders, the livestock were severely dwindling in numbers, and soon enough, more and more people were not found dead, but petrified - turned stone-still, immobilized, eternally frozen in their fear and horror for inexplicable reasons.
Conspiracies and terrified speculation arose, and yet all came to one shocking conclusion - the heir of Slytherin and his beast, the basilisk, had awaken, to fulfill the prophecy set by their ancestor themselves.
The village was buzzing with fear. Many started leaving, in an attempt to escape their inevitable fates should they continue living there. The village had become a ghost-town - desolate and reeking of despair from every corner. It was a dreadful time, and things only got worse.
People started dying.
She could still remember it, even now. The chill of the air as ghostly fiends known as Dementors, sentient beings from the Underworld came into the village, killing all in their paths with their dreaded 'kisses' and sucking the very life and joy out of each they crossed. The way the elusive, deathly appearances of Thestrals came into vision, only visible to all that had witnessed death. That day, there had been so many deaths.
And him.
Voldemort, was, as bluntly put as possible, terrifying. Hermione, prided for being called a 'Gryffindor at heart' despite being a muggleborn could not help but shudder at the very mention of the name. He was petrifying, to say the least. Pale white skin, two slits for nostrils, glowing red eyes that must have been human once... he was horrifying. And his powers. Tremendously powerful magic, dark magic, that was responsible for the deaths of hundreds. Even without the Basilisk, he was formidable. Unstoppable.
Finally, after 24 long, horrifying hours, Voldemort ceased his slaughtering. Even then, Hermione could remember him. Cold, untouched. Many had attempted to battle him, but had failed horribly. Dumbledore as well had failed them, having been defeated. Even Hermione's dearest friend Harry Potter had went off to search for help, desperate in the gravity of their situation.
Harry had never returned.
Voldemort hadn't asked for much. Even after all the innocent lives he had taken, he remained as poised, indifferent and eloquent as always, as if the blood splattered on his black cloaks was nothing more than the air around him.
For Hermione, it was almost unbearable.
"My dear friends," he'd spoken, in his chillingly high-pitched voice, Hermione bristling at the way he had even dared to address them, "we can end all this, with no more bloodshed. I know that you are all weary," he paused, his eyes indifferently sweeping through the groups of people, "and tired of fighting a losing battle, so perhaps we can finally put this all to rest. Simply fulfil my one request," he spoke, "and all of this unpleasantness can come to an end."
A deafening silence followed, the villagers each stunned into muteness. None could believe it. Voldemort, negotiating with them to end the bloodshed? It was impossible.
Seconds passed like hours, and eventually Voldemort spoke up once more. "Now now, you really aren't in any position to decline. Just the granting of my one, simple request, can restore peace to this village, and can, rest assured, make sure I never come back to terrorize this village again."
This time, the villagers were sure they'd heard it. Voldemort, granting them mercy? For a simple favour? Whispers arose between the crowds of people, some of excitement, others of worry and anxiety. For Hermione, she was part of the latter.
It was a while before one of the villagers stepped forth to address the Dark Lord. Cornelius Fudge, Hermione could recall, his eyes fearful and suit dishevelled as he projected his voice as best he could without stuttering.
"My... my Lord," Cornelius began, as Hermione felt indignation and repulsion well up within her for the fact that Cornelius had so easily submitted to the man that had murdered their friends and families, "my lord, if there's anything we can do..."
"Yes," Voldemort cut in swiftly, much to the relief of Cornelius, "in fact, my request is simple. Simply send to me one maiden during winter, and the basilisk's hunger shall be satiated."
The request was met by silent, tense shock, followed by a scream from Molly Weasley herself, mother to Hermione's own sweetheart Ron Weasley and friend Ginerva.
"No, not our daughters! Not my Ginny! Please!" she wailed, as her husband Arthur Weasley, comrade to muggleborns, attempted to restrain and muffle her pleas.
Surprisingly, Voldemort did not curse her then and there. Instead, quite calmly, he turned to the grieving mother, his face impassive.
"Do not despair, my dear blood-traitor," Voldemort soothed, resulting in shivers up Hermione's spine for the umpteenth time that day, "I'm a reasonable man. Only women who have reached the age to betrothed, not mere children. I will not harm the innocent." he finished, Hermione vehemently growling inwardly at what a lie that was.
That bastard, Hermione seethed, if he thinks anyone is foolish enough to agree with him-!
But Hermione was wrong, for cowardly fools they were as Corenlius readily agreed, he himself having no children let alone daughters to call his own. "We agree, my Lord," Cornelius conceded, quite pleased with the outcome, "it is promised that in exchange for your glorious mercy we, the villagers of Hogsmeade will readily sacrifice one of our maidens to you with the arrival of each winter."
And it was done. Hermione could only feel the life suck out of her as the words had passed from Cornelius's lips.
Everything just stopped.
Because, at that moment, it wasn't the fact that she was angry at how easily her villagers had given up.
It wasn't even that her best friend (God, she needed him so much) was missing.
It was the fear that that girl who would be given to the Dark Lord himself could be her, next.
And that was what had happened. That was Hogsmeade's dark past. Gradually, as time wore on, the village restored itself to almost its former glory, but it was never the same. Like an ugly scar, the village of Hogsmeade could not forget Voldemort, nor what they had promised to him.
It was the winters that they dreaded.
First, Hermione was thankful, disgusted yet silently relieved it wasn't her that was chosen. The village had wanted to make sure Voldemort would not be angered with their attempts to appease him, so they sent the beautiful pureblood Parvati Patil, causing much grief to her twin and parents.
Horrifyingly enough, they found her dress torn and drenched in blood the very next day, like wine spilled on a canvas of pure, white snow.
But that didn't mean Voldemort had been angered. In fact, much to their relief, he hadn't broken his promise to them, and the next winter, they sent another pureblood Pansy Parkinson, a pug-faced and horribly-tempered yet undoubtedly pureblooded female.
Needless to say, there again they found her dress shredded and soaked in blood the very next day as well.
It became a morbid yet monotonous routine to them: send in someone's daughter, find her bloody clothing the next day and clean it up, thus remaining safe from the Dark Lord for another year. It was immoral and grotesque, and yet no one spoke up about it. Even Hermione, who was so intent on protesting against the act, was harshy reprimanded by her parents for even thinking to do so.
"No, Hermione!" her father had yelled, as her mother sobbed into an armchair, "I forbid you! Do you know what will happen, if you speak up against this? They'll send you next, and you'll end up like the lot of them: gone forever, with your only remains being a puddle of blood! Do you really want to upset your mother? Look what you've done, she's crying, for god's sake!"
Hermione did not like the reality of her situation, but she could do nothing to stop it. Even Ron, her boyfriend, would have none of her nonsense. It was times like these that she wished she could be like her best friend, Harry. So brave, so strong. She felt like a coward, just like the rest of them as her friends faded away.
Years passed, and it was another miracle that Hermione had yet to be chosen. She was already nineteen, three years well-past her age that enabled her to betrothed. Already, Angelina Johnson, Cho Chang, and Padma Patil had been sacrificed, joining the ever-growing line of brides to the Dark Lord.
But times were getting harder. Girls were now getting married straight-away as soon as they turned 16, or, worse (according to tradition), had begun fornicating before being wed, thus eliminating them as potential sacrifices to Voldemort. Hermione would rather give herself up to a good cause (as horrible as her demise was) than selfishly take the coward's way out. But she knew, deep down, she couldn't blame them.
They were scared. Just like her.
And now, she reflected with great gloom, she would join them. Against her will.
Married to Malfoy.
The sentence whispered cruelly in her head, emanating over and over again against the walls of her skull, threatening to burst out. The reality of her situation was grim. It was either; a) marry Malfoy and be doomed to a miserable life, or b) possibly become the new victim to Voldemort, hence being sent inevitably to an early and gruesome grave.
She had no choice.
She supposed she had a number of people to blame for her current situation. Draco, for one, for even daring to ask for her hand in marriage (why couldn't it have been that handsome Bulgarian Viktor, or even Malfoy's friend the charming Blaise Zabini?), Ron, for dumping her to elope with Lavender Brown (the git), and finally Voldemort, for sealing her to a fate of either living unhappily or ultimately dying. It was the choice to attend her forced wedding or her inevitable funeral.
She wondered, briefly, what it would have been like marrying the way she'd always dreamt to: a big white fancy dress, a stunning ceremony that was of a rather quiet affair, her beaming father and her crying mother, a beautiful, elegant cake, and her groom... her heart ached at the thought of it, at how cruelly fate had snatched the possibility of this happening away from her.
Hermione was so absorbed with her thoughts from that point on that she barely recognised the traces of new heat lingering on her flesh. She continued.
I'm marrying Malfoy.
Silently, she pondered the idea of Harry's reaction to the idea, and let a small smile trace her lips - the first in the whole day. Harry... oh, how she missed him. If he were here, he'd have objected to her and Draco's union, and would have done everything in his power to prevent it (unlike that git of a boyfriend Ron). Afterall, Draco was his arch-enemy.
But still, though she was now calmed and in a state capable of logical thinking, she still had yet to determine Draco's sudden move to marry her, a muggleborn and enemy of his of all people. Did he have ulterior motives, to make her suffer, to humiliate her for the rest of her life, to boast to his friends how he, Draco Malfoy, had finally conquered the mudblood-bitch known as Hermione? She rather hoped not.
Or was it something much less sinister? Could it be, that perhaps, Draco was in the end, simply attracted to her and wanted to marry her? Did those cruel jabs and insults he threw at her really contain something else, like affection and love?
Somehow, Hermione found she believed her initial ideas about his intentions more rather than that idiotic musing.
Hermione looked up to the night sky. The moon was getting shrouded in more clouds of mist, casting the cemetery in a much gloomier atmosphere. Hesitantly, she sighed. She supposed she should be getting back. Afterall, her mother and father may have gone up to check on her. What would they think, to find their only daughter suddenly gone from her bed? Hermione allowed a wry smirk to grace her face at the thought of how her parents would react. They were pretty paranoid, afterall.
Hermione got up once more, her mind missing the small detail that she felt warm and numb, rather than cold and icy. Her bare feet treading on the pure white blanket of snow thrown over just a thin layer of ice, she walked on and exited the cemetery, cheeks rosy and the tip of her nose red.
It was when she had taken her fifth step since exiting the cemetery that she suddenly halted, dread pumping through her chest.
She'd heard it.
Someone was there.
Terrified (for the possibility of Dementors or even Inferi wandering around was very likely), Hermione let her wide dark eyes sweep across her desolate surroundings, breath hitched and mind reeling. It wasn't uncommon for people to disappear around these parts. Afterall, it was where they often found the blood and clothes of the girls after paying tribute to the Dark Lord himself.
She never usually was this afraid. Often, under normal circumstances, she'd have reasoned that the noises were most likely generated from natural sources, such as a wayward bear making its way out of hibernation, or a fox hunting for prey. Not this time.
It was... different. The atmosphere had changed; Hermione feeling the air go colder around her, her heart sink to tragic depths, almost as if... exactly like it was like when...
Voldemort.
I need to get out of here, Hermione reasoned wildly, adrenaline once again flooding through her veins and lungs as her muscles tensed, getting ready to run at the slightest sign of alarm. Survival was second nature to her, often relying on her instincts in the past to avoid suffering the same fate as Voldemort's victims.
She barely registered a faint shadow slip across the horizon - too terrified, too frozen in her terror to even move.
She was afraid.
Move, Hermione, move! she willed herself, the terror now crawling up from the pit of her stomach.
Suddenly, she heard a twig snap. That was all it took - in a mere matter of seconds, Hermione leapt forth, legs pumping and hair flowing as she sped out of the wildnerness and towards the village. It was exactly how she had come - she needed to get out, get out, get out.
Running from what exactly, Hermione did not stop to think, but that didn't matter - so immersed in a state of panic and so driven by the will to escape with her life intact, Hermione ran, each step miscalculated, imprecise, reckless, spurred on only with pure, raw, animalistic energy that it was both her saviour -
and inevitable downfall.
Almost there, Hermione thought excitedly, completely unaware that the creature pursuing her had already slipped its way back into the shadows,
if I can just -!
Crack.
Suddenly, upon impact with her last footstep, the ice shattered beneath her, Hermione plunging into the cold, icy depths of the frozen-over lake, her lungs filling with frosty water as she felt the terror well up within her.
Looking back, Hermione would have realised that she should have accessed the solidity of the icy surface before running across it, but it was too late.
She was in a dire dilemma, and she needed to get out, or she would definitely die.
Need to... get to... the surface! she determined frantically, as she desperately clawed her way up through the freezing pitch black water, eager to scramble back up onto the surface. Thankful for her choice of superbly light clothing, Hermione flexibly manoeuvred herself through the water, heart drumming madly in her chest. Kicking as hard as she could, she propelled herself clumsily to the top of the water, relief flooding through her as she dimly recognised the lake's frozen surface above. But her desperate attempts were only met with futility as her hands, outstretched to touch the reassuring cold air, met only the hard, impenetrable surface of the frozen lake.
She was trapped.
Never having been a confident swimmer, Hermione's capacity to continue swimming depleted significantly as she panicked, erratically pressing as hard as she could against the ice. She needed to hurry - time was running out, and it was only a matter of time before hypothermia or the threat of drowning claimed her.
Still, it was no use.
It's useless, she inwardly bemoaned, I can't get out!
She was going to die.
But was it really so bad? Afterall, even if she did manage to escape, what if the entity that was chasing her was waiting for her all along, just to claim her as soon as she got out? And was a life of being Draco Malfoy's consort really worth going back to? Hermione felt herself slightly ease as her conciousness slipped further and further away. I'm tired... she thought suddenly, brain fuzzy and numb.
It was only a matter of time now before the dark embrace of Death came to claim her, but Hermione had conceded to her fate, eyelids fluttering as her lungs numbly screamed for oxygen. I'm so... so... tired...
Wearily, Hermione watched as memories and people from her life danced behind her eyes - her parents... the first time they discovered she possessed magic at the tender age of 7... drinking Butterbeer ... her first kiss with Viktor Krum from a faraway village ... meeting Ron (how she hated him) and Harry... Harry with his green, green eyes...
and Voldemort...
Slowly but surely, the lights of life flickered from Hermione's dull, brown eyes, and, for the last time, she closed them, all traces of fear, desperation and sorrow vanishing from her fading mind. Silently, the young muggleborn rejoiced in the comforting darkness and promise of eternal sleep that came.
Sleep...
...
...
...
But she didn't. For all of a sudden, Hermione felt her eyes snap open as she drifted peacefully into the depths of the water, her hand absently was grasped by another's, she being pulled a secure grasp. Eyes wide open, Hermione could only barely make out a dark shadowy figure holding her hand, before she felt a sudden tug and pulling sensation. Then, she felt it.
It was a terrible sensation - everything went black, and she was sure she was dead. However, the sudden feeling of iron bands wrapping around her, an intolerable pressure forced upon her gut and chest, and her skull being crushed painfully roused her from that conclusion - the pain was agonising and extremely uncomfortable, to the point that this time she really did, almost pleadingly, beckoned death to take her, just to end the suffering.
It was unbearable, and seemed to stretch on for eternity, but much to her relief, it stopped.
A whirl of cloaks, a choking of lungs -
She was... she was...
alive.
Spluttering, and drenched in freezing water, the white nightgown now clinging uncomfortably to her icy, pallid skin, Hermione coughed uncontrollably, chestnut locks plastered to her cheeks as she struggled to come to terms with her situation.
She had survived.
The great feeling of triumph that blossomed within her chest was short-lived, however, when the gravity of her situation weighed in on her.
What had happened? And where was she?
Regardless that the possibility of drowning was eliminated, the possibility of death was not - she'd been in the water for far too long, and if she didn't get warmed up soon, hypothermia would be sure to claim her where drowning didn't.
The shivering wouldn't stop; and if she could recall correctly from one of the large medical tomes she'd read in the library, hypothermia also resulted in mental confusion and delusions. Looking around now with bleary eyesight, Hermione could vaguely see she was in a dark, cold, unforgiving place, the floor made of cool dark stone, alongside with the walls. Any other characteristic she could not take in - her gradual slipping into unconsciousness would not allow her.
Perhaps... I did die afterall... she mused quietly, as another wave of nausea hit her, like a tsunami crashing upon the coast. Somehow, she willed herself on with enough power not to vomit then and there. The bile in her throat was burning and repulsive, but she refused to expel it then and there.
When the next wave of nausea hit her, however, she could not stop it. Vomiting out water along with the putrid bile, Hermione suddenly felt weaker than ever, this time collapsing on the floor in a tired heap of exhaustion, barely holding on.
She was wrong. She didn't want to die; her wishes to do so before she now found stupid and idiotic. Death as a means of escape... it was cowardly, no better than those girls who had deflowered themselves to avoid becoming Voldemort's new victim for the winter. She still had so much to live for... her parents' smiles, learning more and developing her knowledge on magic and its properties, finding out whatever had happened to Viktor and the others after he had left to return home... seeing Ron again just to impart a swift and ruthless vengeance on him for breaking her heart... seeing Harry return to her...
and Voldemort... telling Voldemort how much she hated him... she was going to keep living, even if it was just to see Voldemort's demise...
and Draco... she hated the git, but, she was willing to keep living, just to make the rest of his life a living hell too.
Hermione Granger did not wish to die.
"I want to live." Hermione whispered painfully to no one in particular, a single tear streaking down her already freezing wet cheek.
It did not fall on deaf ears.
And so, the dark and shadowy figure that had been her saviour and in time her destroyer granted such a wish.
"Mudblood," a voice echoed throughout the impending darkness, as Hermione gripped tightly to her last strands of conciousness, "do you truly wish to live?"
At this, Hermione could not even find the indignity to be offended at the term the voice had used, not even questioning where the voice itself had even come from.
"Y-yes, please..." Hermione croaked. Never before had she felt so pitifully weak. The fear now residing and arising in the pit of her stomach was enough to deter her from falling into the mysterious voice's hands. She just wanted to live, so badly. She heard the voice's source step closer.
"And you are willing to be mine and mine alone, promised to me for all of eternity?" it ventured, Hermione vaguely aware of the dark eyes trained on her from the shadows.
"Yes... p-please... I'll do anything..." she pleaded weakly, "just save me..."
She was certain she could hear a satisfied 'hmph' as the tense atmosphere faded away. "So be it then," it spoke, as Hermione's eyes shut close, "you're mine. And now, my promise to you..."
Hermione allowed her eyes to briefly flicker open, just to see an approaching figure reaching down towards her, now seconds away from fading into non-existence. This time, she felt warmth envelop her and flood her cheeks as she whispered out her final words for the day.
"Who... are you?" she asked softly, chocolate brown eyes shutting to a final close as eyelashes batted against rosy cheeks.
The voice hesitated, before it finally replied. This time, Hermione fully drew in the voice, as she was swept up into its strong, warm arms and carried off and away. It was beautiful; deep, sensuous and baritone. Just the way she'd always liked voices to be, she thought dreamily.
"I," it spoke, as Hermione fell into a world of darkness and dreaming, "am...
"the heir to a great, great king."
A/N: Sorry if it's a bit suckish. I've been working on this for more than a week, writing and re-writing, and I got so impatient that I decided to just leave it as it is. Please tell me whether you liked it or not, and hit the friendly 'Review button' to tell me what you think. :) Thanks again guys, see you soon!