Hyaci here! I am a truly horrible person. Instead of updating my main fic, I decided to write this oneshot instead. I wrote this in a bout of morbid inspiration, but I didn't spend much time editing it, so it might be a bit... unpolished. But at a superficial once-over, the grammar seems acceptable, and the overall story seems cohesive. So, without further ado, I present...

His Eyes Closed

Hermione lay in the cold bed, alone. She didn't know where her husband was- but then, she didn't particularly care. Along the years, it had somehow become customary for her to return home to an empty house, with the knowledge that Harry was out and about, taking care of his needs. She had been rather startled to find that the fact didn't bother her in the least. Somewhere along the years, they had just stopped loving one another- had just stopped caring. She didn't know what had gone wrong; she just knew that something had.

Reaching out with one hand, she reached for her wand. A few quietly muttered words later, and there was a bluebell fire in the jar she kept by her bed. She sunk back into the mattress comfortably- the emptiness had been easy to deal with (revealingly so), but the coldness… well, that had been quite another matter entirely.

For minutes- or perhaps hours- she sat, staring at the wall across from her contemplatively. It was a lie, she decided. She did know where it all began to fall downhill. It was when deception and intrigue made their entrances into the charmed life she and Harry had been sharing. Perhaps before she decided to indulge in them, she had believed that it wouldn't affect her personal life with him. Even now that it did, she found that she could not find it within herself to regret the subterfuge- it had been, after all, a necessary measure. It was regrettable that it had come between the two of them, but that was a small thing.

She snapped her fingers, summoning her house elf.

There was, perhaps, a time when Hermione had found owning house-elves objectionable. But certain events had transpired, and changes had been necessitated.

With a quiet, nearly inaudible crack, a tiny, sniveling, pathetic creature appeared at the foot of the bed. Hermione couldn't remember its name (she really couldn't be bothered to care), so she simply beckoned it closer.

"Little thing," she called, her voice disgustingly sugary, oily, and utterly poisonous. With a fearful look in its eye, the little elf crawled close, centimeter by centimeter.

She waved her hand impatiently, and with a loud and pained shriek, it flew through the air, and landed with a loud thud at her bedside. It gave a loud squeal, and curled itself into a protective ball, before another wave of her hand turned its muscles to jelly. It collapsed, unable to continue shivering, shaking, or do anything other than meet her eyes rather masochistically and whimper.

"Little thing," she repeated sweetly. "When will the master be home today?"

"T-t-the master will not be coming home," it spoke, its voice pitched rather high, and sounding extremely shaky.

"You are sure of this," Hermione asked the creature, her dark eyes boring into the large, teary ones before her.

"Y-yes, m-mistress," it answered.

"Good," she smiled coldly. "Ensure that it remains that way."

Her hand ghosted over to her left sleeve, and she slowly began to draw back the fabric. There it was on her forearm- the twisted, ugly scar that Bellatrix had given her on that terrible night at Malfoy Manor. How fitting it was, that this ugly souvenir from her past became the grisly mark, the trophy she was now oh-so-proud of.

It was not the same- it was different, in many ways. Along the years, she had taken it upon herself to beautify the marks. She had tried softening the scar, she had tried covering it up. Now, she no longer tried to disguise it. In fact, she had embraced it- with a little scarification from a muggle Body-Modification shop, the jagged letters had become calligraphic. A work of art.

She stroked the scar tenderly, lovingly, before once more pulling down her sleeve, and returning her gze to the house elf that remained unmoving on the floor.

"Be sure to tell the others to prepare the table for my… guests." The words, though benevolent in and of themselves, took on a sinister edge when she spoke them- perhaps from a combination of her sickly-sweet voice and her menacing tone. With a wave of her hand, the elf was once again mobile.

"Go on now," Hermione said. "Back to the others."

With a crack, it was gone.

Hermione settled back into bed, and closed her eyes peacefully. When the time came, she would be in her secret antechamber, waiting. But for now- she wanted to rest.

Harry came home that night happier than he had been for the past few years. He had finally managed to disentangle himself from the sticky situation that was Ginevra Weasley. He was determined to fix whatever had gone wrong in his marriage with Hermione. They had been happy once, and he had stupidly thrown it all away. Just last night, he been stricken by an epiphany. What was he doing with the temperamental, irritating redhead, when he had Hermione? They had been so happy together, once upon a time, and he dreamt that they could be happy once again. Somehow, they make it through his mistakes, and make it to the other side.

She never smiled at him anymore.

Perhaps that had been the wake-up call. He had noticed as of late that Hermione never smiled in his presence. When they ate together, when they conversed, when they went out for their anniversaries. Always, they were apathetic to one another.

But yesterday, he had awoken remembering the bond that they had shared through their childhood- a bond that had deepened into love over the years. He found himself longing for that love once again- that epic, exciting love that had been with them since Voldemort's defeat, the love that lasted three years into their marriage. And so, he had decided to part ways with Ginny, buy Hermione a gift in apology for the years of suffering she had had to endure, and return home early in a desperate (but optimistic) attempt to rehabilitate their damaged relationship. He was determined that they would love each other again- forever this time.

He encountered the first obstacle right as he apparated onto his doorstep.

"M-master must not enter!" the house elf- Dibbers- cried as she desperately tried to bar his entry.

"Why not?" he wanted to know.

"D-dibbers cannot say!" she answered him, still resolute in her endeavor to force him away from the door.

"Nonsense," he said with a carefree wave of his hand. "Move out of the way, Dibbers."

"N-no!"

Harry heard the telltale crack of house-elf magic, and found himself sprawled on his back in his front yard. He blinked in shock- Dibbers had never raised a hand against him before. In fact, she had always been the meek and timid elf.

What the blazes was going on?

Recognizing that the elf was determined to prevent his entry at all costs, he pulled out his wand.

"Confundo!"

The elf was suddenly as rigidly stiff as a board. At his direction, she disapparated- probably to the kitchen- and left his path clear. With a roll of his eyes, he inserted his key, grasped the doorknob and turned it.

Locked.

Frowning, he pointed his wand at the lock, and after the door clicked open, let himself in. Harry couldn't recall the last time that Hermione had locked the door magically. They did, after all, live in a muggle suburb, where a mundane lock and a burglar alarm was sufficient.

He flicked the switch, and the lights flooded the empty hallway. He absentmindedly noted that the lights seemed to be weakening, if the flickering was any useable evidence.

"Hermione?"

No answer. He began to feel seriously perturbed. Wasn't she home?

"Hermione!"

Harry advanced down the hall, unable to suppress the chill that ran down his spine. There was something utterly off, something absolutely wrong with the way the house felt. The ambience was different. Panic began to seep into him. Surely something hadn't happened to Hermione?

If something had, he'd never be able to forgive himself for not realizing what he had, and letting it slip slip right through his fingers.

"Hermione?" The library- her favorite place in the whole house- was empty. As was her office room, the guest room, and the conservatory. He was seriously worried now- especially about the house elf's determination to keep him out…

"Hermione!" He threw open their bedroom door, only to find it totally empty. He ran in, throwing open the chests, the wardrobes, anything he could possibly open. He checked the bathrooms, the baths, the showers. He opened the closets, stuck his head in the cabinets. Still, Hermione was nowhere to be found.

It was as he was about to leave and search elsewhere that he heard it- the murmuring. It was nearly inaudible, and he had to cease his breathing, and strain, to hear it.

"- nothing but a nuisance…"

It was coming from the bookcase.

"If he-"

No doubt it was a secret passage. He scanned the bookcase, looking for any possible switches or levers.

"-deal with him immediately-"

Diary of Anne Frank. It made sense. He stroked the spine, and the bookcase gave a groan, and began to shudder open.

"I'll kill him, of course-"

A large antechamber, with a round table perched atop a raised dais. Hermione sat on a throne raised above the other seats. At the sound of the bookcase opening, she looked up at him in surprise- then slowly curled her lips into a smirk.

Numbly, he began to recognize the others that were seated at the table. Neville Longbottom. Ronald Weasley. Fleur Delacour. Draco Malfoy.

"Why hello there, Harry," Hermione beamed at him. "Please do come in. We were just talking about you."

AN: So, what did you think of Hermione, her evil cabal, and their evil plots? Please review and help me improve my writing!