Iniquity's Strange Appeal
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
AN: I am really hoping that this story will turn out and do okay out there in the big wide world of fanfiction. I went along the lines of "un-cliche" but not to unappealingly different, I guess. I've been thinking about writing a fic about a book for a long time. A couple of months ago I actualy started one up. I couldn't finish the first chapter, you know how that happens sometimes. It seems like a great idea but then... It just gets all boring and stuff. I hope this story doesn't bore any readers.
And onto the story!
The book was held delicately between two long, formidably pale fingers, its soiled leather binding screaming with protests against every motion of those hands as they gently caressed the blackened cover. Worn, folded corners frayed beneath the cool touch as it swept the tarnished, dust coated silver engraving that lay forever embedded into the depths of the book's very soul. The hands trembled, apprehension hanging in thick clouds about the room, a wave of stifling heat flooding from every nervous pore along the hands, fingers, arms, that greedily sought the secrets that lay beneath the cover.
No selfless touch had ever laid hand upon this work, which was now so close to its reveal. No greedless eyes had yet to set its sights upon the contents of these pages, which were held closely in the hands of evil. This was no ordinary scripture of literacy, no heart of knowledge to be devoured by the innocence of human eyes. Such as she could not look to such words as these for condolence, for inside what mysterious shield lay over its writings were things hideous beyond what even those of wisdom have to yet understand. Secrets that could never be told, for the whispers ever esteemed to be spoken never pass the lips of those with knowledge. For knowledge, in the world as is, comes only at a price.
It should have been that the readers were forewarned, as many who have ventured into its pages have desperately desired. But the spells which lay into the very stitches of its making are meant to be appealing to those with fleshly avidity. Not the screams of Hell could prevent the hungry eyes of any soulful body from its teachings. Not even an eruption of Armageddon fires could tear a spirit from the burning imprint that such things will leave on the life to which it becomes attached. And yet there was no hesitation in the covetous fingers as the plunged idly into an irreversible chain of affairs.
Iniquity's Strange Appeal
Admittedly a strange title for an aged tome, dusty and unmoved for centuries on end, but none the less attractive to the passing glance of any inquisitive and vulnerable mind. Once it is seen, the seer is caught in a muddled net of desire for its knowledge. More dangerous is this feeling for those of the population who regularly are overcome by such thirsts for enlightenment, who consequently fall willingly into its trap. For those such as these people, picking out the book from a crowd is a simple task of interest and instinct. They are inevitably ensnared.
Even to those which are more suspecting, the book has an uncertain allure. It can rip one's mind away from the most pressing matters and place you in alternate dimensions, in worlds where the words you are drinking in are the only ones that seem to exist. That is how Hermione Granger stumbled across Iniquity's Strange Appeal, how she first opened to the crackling, yellowed pages and began her journey of darkness. A journey along a path that could hence forth never be abandoned, a way of life that was adopted by any who have read those words.
This hungry need for appeasement drove her to turn that first stained, blank page, which held nothing but the grief of times past and the crimson stains of the blood that marred each hand who so openly embraced the tenebrosity of the book's Iniquity. Even those with innocence still flowing in their veins could not deny a strange lust for which was undesirable to all others, which overtakes as the moments of anticipation charge tension through the air. Why else would she tremble with barely restrained control as the page turned? Old English, barely recognizable to the modern definition of the English language, lay scripted gracefully across the page, the odd markings only recognizable to those familiar with medieval studies and possessed a great knowledge of English literature. But anyone could read clearly what each word seemed to scream. It was part of the magic that encompassed the tome.
Unfairly fought, the battle is always one of loss to those who oppose Iniquity's Strange Appeal. For even those to which iniquity has no appeal, the words are irresistible in their ancient charms. And despite any protests of having no desire to learn about the darkness and secrets in the world, every person has a place reserved in them for such curiosities as these. A place that wants to know what evil really was, not think they can see what is concealed by endlessly dark shadows, but to really know. And it is just as unfair to those that wish to continue the reading, for they have not one defense against the sinister past staining the pages. For these people their mocking destiny is to be true. Knowledge will be their demise.
So that was how it began, as it always did in the past, for Hermione Granger. A young woman with a passion for the text of the wise, who hungers, thirsts, and thrives on the intelligible words of others. She sat with her back to reality, looking for all world as she did each and every day, a small form in the shadows of a vast realism, adventuring through the books of life and ignoring her own life passing by her. No one could know that she was fast approaching the turning point of her life. So many paths were being cut from her grasp, her vast plain of life being finely shredded to a dark, narrow passageway. There were no doors in Hermione Granger's new corridor of life. What options there had been were now tightly locked, behind bars for her to see but never touch in life or in death.
" Put the past behind you wilting back, for the future awaits, a stairway leading you not to Heaven, but to places of your mind that have never yet been breached..."
Hermione murmured the first line aloud as her eyes scanned the page rapaciously. Her breath hissed from between her teeth as a shiver raced along her spine, the book growing cold between her fingers as she clutched it almost desperately. Somewhere there was warning, but so buried in her gluttony it was useless. She proceeded mindlessly towards the end. Little snatches of information brought cautious questions to mind, but never once did she stop to consider what she was doing, devouring a seemingly magically corrupt testament of facts. Each word twisted various outlooks, instilled prejudices, prejudices she had opposed her entire life that she was now drinking in almost... faithfully. Suddenly all embracing, all scorning, all frightened... all at once.
" Until this day there were thoughts engrained within your very soul, but tonight a star will whisper in your ear 'Concida Sententia' and you will see all that was never meant to be seen..."
" I will see what is never meant to be seen..." Hermione repeated, her fingers caressing the quivering spine of the book as she puzzled over the statement.
" Cuento Minuo, for as you see these lines of truth a new day is born upon your flesh, of mind, body and soul. A day of resurrection and redemption in the eyes of all who glimpse the you beneath your skin..."
Hermione could see into the Draconian heart of the being who had written these words, could no more take them to heart then she could do for a dagger. Upoun normal circumstances such thoughts as these would disgust her, such a blind prejudice for life and the natural synchronization of the world was appalling. But that was under normal circumstances. Now she found herself enthralled, captured and hooked beyond her own comprehension. Which was exactly why she could not continue reading as she sat there in the library. It took a will of steel to fold down the delicate corner of the page, something she had forbidden herself from doing, ever. Slipping the book between her arms and holding it tightly against her chest, Hermione grabbed her book bag and rushed out of the sanctuary quiet of the library. Madame Pince didn't even notice her taking the book. Hermione felt bad for breaching the old librarian's hard earned trust.
" Concida Sententia..." she muttered beneath her breath, scraping at the edge of her mind for the meaning of the obviously Latin words.
The weight of the book against her arms reminded her of the words that had seeped into her brain from the ever open portals of her searching eyes. Concida, a simple word, she remembered. Meaning " to destroy". But what did the whispers want to destroy? They wanted to replace her feelings with prejudice, to make her some kind of droning follower of cultish beliefs. And then it came... Sententia, opinions, thoughts, a way of thinking. Basically individuality, a frame of mind. A frame of mind that the author of Iniquity's Strange Appeal meant to be rid of the book's readers.
And despite the distinct and utter horror of realization, a realization that this was no normal book, but a pit of endless evil, Hermione carried on her steps towards the Gyrffindor common room, not once believing that she would set the book aside. Not for a moment was she blinded by falsehoods. She knew very well that this was not something to be done rationally or logically, but it would not stop her. Nothing would stop her from gaining knowledge. Not even the dearest of prices.
" There are many famous faces in muggle historics that are, in fact, born of wizardry. People such as Shakespeare, Tchaikovsky, and even Leonardo De Vinci. Some wizards are even known as wizards in the muggle world. Merlin is a world renowned wizard, even to those not born with magic, though he is most often considered a myth or legend."
Hermione's head rested against her desk, her eyes masked in a blank, unblinking mist and jaw slightly slack. She fought away the boredom with an iron fist, trying hard to listen to Professor Hendrall as she spoke of the relations between muggles and wizards, but she kept drifting away, back into her mind, where slightly more interesting things seemed to be taking place.
" Abiscido Amo, give yourself away from the attachments that hold you down in the past. The love you harbor will vanish as you undergo..."
Would her passion, love, her freedom truly diminish to nothing? Slowly and painfully, would she lose what had always been there, someone to talk to and confide in? With a sardonic little laugh, Hermione sat up and ignored the odd stares she received. It had been three days. Three days of confusion, fear, and something akin to excitement. Some sick force in her mind wanted to know that all of those things were real, all of those words weren't lying to her and giving her nonsense. But it seemed that that small little bit of desire was slowly spreading over other, more rational, parts of her mind. The parts that made sense.
Suddenly her hand was in the air, " May I please go to the bathroom?" she asked the professor, pleading with her eyes in that convincing sort of way.
Hermione didn't go to the bathroom.
The halls were abandoned as she hurried along, her feet moving quickly beneath her and her head turning every few seconds to make sure no one was behind her. She was jumpy and her skin felt strange, as if it were drawn tight across her bones. She had never trembled more then she has so constantly in the past three days. Something was wrong, she could feel it, like a needle pricking her shoulder over and over and over again. It was starting to bleed.
Abiscido Amo...
Concido Sententia...
Cuento Minuo...
Give yourself away, Hermione. Stop fighting me...
See the truth, be reborn into your living flesh...
Lisssten to me, Hermione...
I know you hear the stars, they whisper to you each... and... every... night...
See what you desire to see. See the truth...
The voice was persistent, a ticking clock inside of her mind, reminding her that she had picked that book up. Why did she want to listen to the voice, why was this knowledge so desirable? It wasn't, she told herself firmly. Of course it wasn't anything like she wanted. Peace in the world, everyone to get along, no... prejudices. No feelings like she had been feeling, the ones where she ha... hated people who weren't, people who... She couldn't even say it. A betrayal of faith, blood, it was too much to absorb and accept. She found herself wishing things that she had no right to wish. She found herself blaming people, people who didn't deserve to be blamed. Like her parents. Like Harry, Ron, everyone that she knew. It was their fault that she was like she was. Dirty.
You could do something about it like- redeem yourself?
Redemtion in the eyes of the beholder. You, the world, everyone.
You could be something, Hermione. Anything you wanted to be, if you would just strive for the truth.
" Please, stop," she whispered shakily, her words shattering the silence of the abandoned corridor.
Three days. It's been three days. Its time to make a choice. Make the right choice.
Do you want to be all that you can be, have power in the eyes of the world?
" Yes," she whimpered helplessly. She wanted that. She was pretty sure she wanted that.
Pretty sure isn't good enough, Hermione. Do you need it?
Tell me, confide in me, I will keep your secrets.
Do you need it?
" Yes," the word was choked, quiet as it erupted from her throat, seemingly shredding her to pieces. She was still walking, her pace slow, unbalanced.
There are things you must do. Important is every moment of the game, every strategy set into action in vital.
Are you willing to sacrifice for knowledge?
Can you pay the price that these words will inevitably cost?
"Yes," Hermione spat this time, her voice a contradiction of confidence and half-restrained sobs.
Give in...
Give in...
Give in...
Give in... Give in... Give in...
It was like a chant behind her eyes, a rally against her morals and beliefs. Something was wrong, something was inside of her that shouldn't be there. Some kind of sick, twisted virus was eating away at whatever had been good in her heart and mind. A disgusting gnawing was taking place just beneath her skull, like a conscience that was backwards, eating for the wrong reasons, biting for things that were so good that they hurt her. It was like everything had been shut down and rebooted, but her wires were mixed up, confused and unstable, ready to fall apart at any moment.
Do you want it?
Do you want it?
Do you need it?
Is this what your heart desires?
Power, do you want power?
" Yes!" she screamed the word, her back collapsing against the stone wall behind her and her knees bending. Sliding, sliding, sliding towards the floor.
" Yes, just please stop it! I want it, I need it, just leave me alone!" Hermione cried. The moisture now gathering in her eyes was frightening. Tears tumbled down her cheeks and her hands clenched in fists around handfuls of her black pleated skirt.
Could a book create power? Power, a thing ever desired by those with human, mortal, living qualities. Something that Iniquity's Strange Appeal offered willingly. But did power ever come freely? Was there always a price for the influence and fear and respect of others? A price is sometimes worth paying to one, but not even an option to another. Is there an explanation for the enticing allure that only has a hold on those few select beings who will go to any length for power. Power is something that most everyone believes can make the world spin and the birds sing. But is it really worth the price that is so often asked for?
AN: Thanks for reading. I really would like to know if anyone liked it. It's been a while since I took a definate stab at any fanfiction. I had the biggest writers block ever.
And this is the part where, you know, I ask you to review. What do you think? Comments, questions, criticism? Corrections? I want to know.