Broken Dreams Part I: Lady Death

Hermione was cold, suddenly, as she sat in front of the orange-yellow flames. Her mind wandered to things that she left for rainy days. Days when she was done her school work and she could rest, if only for a while. Days where the wind blew, sharply, through the corridors because of some unnoticed fissure in the ancient castle walls. Crookshanks was curled up in her lap, his ginger tail flicking at the air every so often in a show of contentment that was singular to only his species.

Outside the rain lashed against the glass window panes, as if mocking all who dared to come outside. "This is what you'll get…" She shivered, whether from the sudden cold or the soft whisper in her ear, she would never find out.

The air in the common room was dim, and smelled of death. Of decay and of things almost forgotten. She hadn't forgotten the death of her friend earlier that year. No, she would never forget the death of her best friend. Perhaps that was why her eyes stung with tears that she would never really shed. No, she had to be the big girl.

Harry was most likely in the dungeons with Malfoy, as per usual the last few months. After he died Harry would migrate to Malfoy's side for weeks on end. He thought that she didn't know. He should respect the fact that by now that she knew everything. Everything everything everything. However, his human mind was blind to the fact that she knew things that she shouldn't. For he had never suspected that she had figured it out. And he never would. She would allow him his comfort if he would allow her the solitude that she so greatly desired.

She pushed the large cat off of her lap and stood up suddenly, as if distressed by something. The colour of his fur. So like that of his hair.

And Hermione allowed herself to cry.

A window shattered within her mind, for the rain pounding on its glass was too much for the structure to take. And the rain fell onto the soft carpets of her inner sanctuary. It sullied the drapes of the other windows, and they, too, shattered. The room that was not a room began to fill with rain water, and she felt that she would be drowned if she couldn't get out.

Water, water on every side. She screamed. Why wasn't any one listening? Help me out, she cried to no one. Save me, get me out of here. I'm dying. Why aren't you there? You left me. Left me. Why didn't I know that you would leave me? Why!?

So perhaps, Fate would say, Hermione didn't know everything.

She was dying now, spent on her tears, and lingering in the flood that was her room that was not a room.

Hermione…

The water was red, now. Blood, perhaps, blood from the death of her friend. Red red red, pretty red, all around her. Her tears were red…why were they red?

Hermione…

And the water was calling her name, her own name. Perhaps she should join her friend. Perhaps? That would make the red go away.

Hermione!

Or maybe, just maybe, someone cared?

…

But it was so close, this Death. This exquisite Death. She longed for Death, longed to grasp her soft, feminine fingers. Longed to have Death love her. Longed to have Death touch her and grasp back at her. To make her Death's own.

Oh…Merlin…Hermione, wake up!

But that wasn't Death. That wasn't her pale, soft lover.

She coughed.

Water spattered onto her face, and the rain drops soaked her hair. Caressing her roughly.

Oh thank Merlin…

Hermione's eyes focused on her saviour.

Am I dead? She asked, wonder in her eyes. The girl above her was soaked from the top of her ginger head to the muddy slippers on her feet. The red hair was plastered to a face as pale as a lady slipper, with a dusting of freckles and a dark blue Night Dress. She wondered if this was death. Death was wet.

No, Hermione, you're alive. What were you thinking, jumping into the lake?! You almost died.

Hermione smiled, Ginny, yes, that was it.

I know. Ginny seemed to look at her, horrified, for a long stretch of time before she gathered up the shorter, rounder witch in a squeeze that went on for an interminable amount of time.

I wanted Death, Hermione whispered. I wanted finality. Solitude.

Ginny brushed hair away from the white oval of Hermione's face.

I'll be your Death, Hermione.

Hermione scoffed, That's oxymoronic, Ginny. You're alive. I'm alive.

Oxymorwhatic?

Hermione sighed. But she leaned upwards, slowly, as if unsure, and gently, ever so gently, grasped colourless lips with her own.

Hours later, once they were ensconced in a crimson bath of velvet, did Hermione whisper in the still darkness, Be my life, and I'll be your Death.

The red head would smile and kiss her Death, as the one who knew nothing embraced life.