the dark butterfly
Like a butterfly, I have transformed into something beautiful.
They don't think I'm so beautiful, but they don't see anything.
They don't see how I'm trapped in this body of mine, dreaming of being released.
How I want to kick and fight and scream and stop studying for once in my goddamn life.
How I want to run and play and laugh and fuck.
They don't see that I'm not the innocent little creature I have been made out to be, the caterpillar, ugly.
But now I know, I am a butterfly.
In the icy grasp of my bed sheets, I shiver. The moonlight shines through my window, illuminating my pale face. The quiet silver of my breath is the only sound which met my ears. Agony pulsates through my body. This was what it means to be truly alone.
I laugh in the darkness, bitterness a knife on my tongue.
So much has changed over the summer vacation. My father, the man I had thought I could count on, left. He did not return. And then my mother, with her tan face and pink lips, admitted to me that I am not her daughter. She told me, her words soft but her message sharp, that I am a pureblood witch.
Dearest Mione,
the letter my real mother left me said, the midnight black ink contrasting sharply against the white parchment,
Words cannot express how terribly remorseful I feel. I have let you down, left you to be raised by Muggles. However, my love, I had no other option; I had no other choice. I shall take you back to that night, the night I decided that I must give you up.
You were but two months old, and you were a beautiful child. Your father (dead now, I must lament) was so proud to call you his own. He knew then that you would be powerful, more powerful than most.
One night I sat in the nursery, holding you in my arms, and a sudden breeze filled the room. The door flew open, and a man stood there, his form filling the door's frame. I jumped up, holding you ever tighter, and I demanded, "Who are you, sir?"
"I am but a messenger," he said. "I bring with me this letter." The man handed me a parchment. The second after I took it, he was gone.
I will not transcribe the letter in its entirety, but I shall tell you what the general gist of it was. It said that someone, I do not know who, would kill my daughter at the age of seventeen. Horror wracked by body. What could I do? There was a death threat on you!
I had no choice, you see, but to give you up. I was terrified of what could happen if I did not. You would surely die on the day of your seventeenth birthday. I could not let it happen.
Having a fair talent in the area of memory charms, I made your father forget you ever existed, as well as everyone who knew of your existence. Again, I am eternally sorry. Then I left you with a Muggle family, as whoever planned to harm you would never look for you there.
I did not , I admit, expect you to be admitted into Hogwarts. How could I? You were raised by Muggles, with no chance for your skill to grow. Oh, but as Fate would have it, you did get accepted, and, as I hear it, you are doing as well as your father thought you would, all those years ago.
But now, my darling, I am dying, and in my last days, I have written you this letter so that you will know of the danger you are in. I do so hope that this letter is needless, and you are in no danger after all.
I grow weak now, and must lay down my quill. However, I implore you, beware, Mione – for there is danger awaiting you, and it would be best if you do not join your father and myself in the beyond for a long while.
With love and regret,
Your Mother
I have demanded of Mrs. Granger to know who this women was or is, but she does not know. The chill of not knowing fills my heart.
As for the death threat, I do not fear yet. I remain Hermione Granger, and any hopeful killer could not know me as such.
But with the recent knowledge that has been brought to my attention, something within my soul has shifted, and I do not believe that I can be as I was – Hermione Granger, mudblood bookworm. I have grown pale and thin, while, at the same time, my body matures. My hair has finally decided to lay flat, and, in a fit of dreadful spontaneity I have dyed it the bleakest black. My wardrobe has been simplified to include only the clothes that are black, as attempting form an outfit that "goes" seems too much hassle in my current state of mind.
I have done things in this time that I am not proud of, things that make me worry for my health and sanity. But what else is there? To pretend, to feel nothing? I cannot return to that.
My return tomorrow to Hogwarts comes at a good time, I must say. I could not bear it here one more moment.
The cool wind caresses my face as I board the scarlet Hogwarts Express. Everything, everyone looks so joyful. How could it be that they are so lighthearted when I am so tormented? It is the cruel irony of life.
A freckled face peeps into the compartment in which I sit. "Oh, sorry," says Ron, his voice deeper than I remember it being. "I was just— Hermione?"
I nod, but do not smile. A smile would seem false and hollow and sycophantic.
"You look . . ." Ron sighs. "Different, I guess."
My lips turn up slightly, although it is not with humor or joy. I am simply struck by his words. Finally, I say, "I feel different, Ron."
He moves into the compartment and takes a seat next to me. "How was your summer? You didn't write."
"Lousy," I reply calmly. "My – dad – left."
"Left? Like . . .?"
"Like he left and he's not coming back."
Ron gasps. "Oh, Hermione, I'm so sorry. I had no idea. Are you . . . okay?"
Shrugging, I say, "Well, worse things could happen. Worse things have happened."
"If you need anything, I can be there, and do it."
"Thank you, Ron."
But the words seem false. The feelings behind them seem false. I can see Ron, with his boyish charm, truly wants to help me, to make me feel better, but I do not need him to do so. Because, with all his boyish charm, I see that he is but a boy, and over the summer, I have grown past that.
I loved Ron. Once. And yet, now, it all feels different. I feel different. But he feels exactly the same, and that is why I can love him no longer.
Harry was equally surprised by my new look and attitude, but I did not tell him of my father. I expect Ron will soon, but I could not. Harry has lost his parents, and I have lost mine. All of mine. My mother and father, as well as the woman and man who raised me. It feels wrong complaining about it to someone who understands.
Again, the irony of life.
It dark by the time we reach the school, and the feast is ready, as always, as soon as the First Years are sorted. The Gryffindors were granted many fine new additions, although it was clear that the Slytherins were the true winners. The look on Draco Malfoy's face made that painfully clear.
I cannot care, at the moment, however. I can only sit here, again wrapped in sheets, again shivering, although hundreds of kilometers from where I once was shivering.
The professors and the other students seem to be distant. They look at me with wide eyes, as if I am so different.
I am, of course, but most of my change was on the inside.
The snores of my roommates fills my ears, and I sigh. I am surrounded by buffoons and sycophants, sadists and masochists. I am surrounded by the quasi-wise, the semi-idiotic, and the pseudointellectual. This is my sad, sad life. Lies and death and sex and love, and I sit on the outside of all of it. I have lost Ron, the small boy; I have lost Harry, the wearied hero; I have lost my love of learning; I have lost everything.
But I will digress, I will move on. When you are caught up in everything, what choice do you have but to move with the crowd, to move on, to flow like the river and accept every twist and turn.
I will continue to transform until I am complete, and then, and only then, will I rest.
Next chappy: Hermione and Draco have a run-in, and he shares his thoughts on her new attitude. Plus, its only two weeks until Hermione's seventeenth birthday and she begins to worry.
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