Hello Guys!
I've always been a huge Dark! Hermione lover, and I wanted to get in on the action.
This is my basic Dark Hermione One Shot: I'm better at short things than I am at long things, so this is probably a little too short, to be honest.
I hope you like it.
Disclaimer: I am not J.K Rowling, nor will I ever be. I do not profit off this, and I just want to expand on the wonderful world she has created.
Disclaimer #2: I also really have nothing against Hufflepuffs. This is just Hermione's character shining through as she gets darker, that's all.
Feel free to review! (In other words, I want you to review :D)
Fun
She wished she had realised earlier that the world could belong to her.
At 10 years old, she had sat in History class and wondered at the stupidity of leaders, leaving muck, mud and blood trailing behind them so obviously.
It was crass, really.
She would sit, alone, at lunchtimes, blocking out the names they called her, and planning the ways she could rule.
Looking back, she felt sorry, now, that that 10 year old had given up on her little embittered dreams, just because there were wizards in the world.
Belonging had felt like a need, an ache, a tumour she couldn't dispose of, so she had followed the inky signatures and magical trains until she had felt like she fit.
She hadn't.
Friends were all very well, but mudblood still sang on everyone's lips. No matter what she did, clever would be her adjective, and nothing else. The Clever Muggleborn who was Potter and Weasley's friend.
Famous by association could never really cut it for her.
Owls and fancy feasts didn't hide the fact that words hurt. Saving the world didn't stop them from whispering slurs behind closed doors.
But then, what was an alohomora for if she couldn't open those doors?
Locks didn't stop Hermione Granger.
She realised that at 19, broken with war and survivor's guilt.
After the war, the good fight, everything felt a little empty, didn't it? You got by the best you could, but when you broke up with your hero of a boyfriend and his mum stopped inviting you to dinner, there wasn't much you could do, was there?
She found her way to bars, and talked to faceless men who were never interested enough, and worked a bit to make the time pass.
In those days she had shuffled papers at a low level research job and waited for them to listen.
But, one night, she saw the world for what it was. All held together by thin threads of blood, criss crossed lifelines that would never come out this ordeal healed. She saw the emptiness, the anger, and realised, in the simplest sort of way, she was not alone.
They were all joined by their hate. (Except, perhaps, the Hufflepuffs, but did they really count?)
That night, she understood making them hear her was more efficient.
10 year old girls grew, yes, but did their hearts ever change?
She was tired of being the scummy blood, the girl crying as her books were stolen, the woman who had the brains but never the charisma.
Ah, their society: all built up high and ready to fall.
Climbing to the top was never easy, but that was what made it fun.
She learnt how to burn the worlds with her words, not just with a curse. She understood science and tangled it with magic, she experimented with mental torture in dark rooms in strange alleyways, she wound herself in the sweetest sort of madness but retained her brain, and built herself the most angry little army.
And then the army wasn't little anymore.
They were all welcome, death eaters, mudbloods, muggles, house elves, centaurs, mermen. They all brought their anger and hate to her and she made it into something real.
They were all welcome.
Except for the ones that weren't.
Those were taken down and displayed for all to see, those were slowly, steadily unhinged until they sobbed for mercy, those were ripped apart by shame and revelation.
All who had done wrong, and some who had always done right, were destroyed by her. Hufflepuffs had always been too gentle. Weasleys had let her fester in her own despair. A Potter only made the world romanticise.
Isn't it beautiful, she said to her lovers in low lit rooms.
Isn't it beautiful, she whispered to her victims as they screamed on dirty floors.
Isn't it beautiful, she laughed to the crowds that called her name.
Isn't it beautiful, the way you let me ruin you?