DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter.
Ultimate Hermione Competition II: Hermione is born in a different era.
Drabble Club: drown (word)
Quidditch Pitch: devoured (word)
If You Dare Challenge: 429. Spin
Greek Mythology Category Competition: Ceryneian Hind: Write about someone or something unattainable.
Hermione blinks, staring at the snow-covered ground in front of her.
Why is she here?
She has no one to mourn, no one to visit in this lonesome graveyard.
So, why?
"What in the name of Merlin am I doing here?" she asks herself, pulling her scarf tighter. She shivers as a snowflake lands on her cheek, spreading a numbness that disappears almost as quickly as it came.
She pulls her gaze from the snow and scans the graveyard, searching for some recognition. Anything.
Nothing.
"Weird." Hermione scratches her head, shaking off the snowflakes that have settled on her hair.
Her eyes return to the ground she had been staring at. She scrutinizes it, hoping she will find just one, small reason.
Nothing again.
Then she feels it. A faint trace of memory.
She sees a flicker of a name. James.
She has the feeling that there is something that should be here. But she doesn't know what.
Another flicker. This one is only a moment longer. Hermione sees the name James again, carved into stone.
Why is she seeing this?
It seems like this whole day is a circle of 'why's'.
She feels another memory, just a bit stronger than the last.
A flash of emerald green. Eyes, she realizes.
For some strange reason, they look just like Lily's. Identical, even, except for one difference.
Those eyes hold pain.
Hermione feels another wave of memories crash against her, and she falls to her knees, sending a flurry of snow into the air.
Snow.
This memory is longer.
She sees two shadowy figures walking together in the same graveyard. One bends down in front of two gravestones, waving a hand at the other. The person—Hermione thinks it's a girl, from the way long hair falls across their face—waves their wand, and flowers appear. They set them down on the graves. They exchange words she cannot hear.
Who are these people?
These memories aren't hers.
So why is she seeing them?
Another flash fills her mind. This one is different, more clearer.
"Hermione!" a voice calls. She turns around, holding a book to her chest.
"What is it, Harry?"
"I got another one," the green-eyed boy—Harry—says, his voice grave.
The memory ends there.
Another what?
And more importantly, who is this girl with her name? Why does she look like her exactly?
More questions.
She tries to pull on the memories as they flash in her mind.
"He's coming!" Screams, then silence. Wands are pulled out.
Then another one.
A red-haired boy presses a kiss to her lips, holding her close. "Stay safe, Hermione."
Another.
A werewolf leaps onto a brown-haired girl, plunging his fangs into her throat. He lifts his head and flashes a feral, bloody smile at her.
More follow, each more clearer than the last.
"Gryffindor!" the Hat yells, drawing a smile from her.
The next one is so clear, so intense, so full of emotion.
"No!" she screams, staring at the limp body in Hagrid's arms. "No! He can't be dead!"
It brings tears to Hermione's eyes as wave after wave of emotions, of pain, flow over her. She nearly drowns in them, nearly drowns in the relentless memories. But she devours them eagerly, waiting for an answer.
Why is she seeing this?
Now, the memories become faint again. Blurry. Hermione tries to grab the small threads of flickering pictures, but they are always out of reach.
Unattainable.
She shudders as another strangled sob wracks her figure.
Whose memories are they?
Hers?
She almost laughs at the idea. Then she stops as realization dawns upon her.
There is no mistaking that bushy, brown hair, those chocolate eyes, the books, the… everything.
But how?
How can they belong to her, when she had never experienced them? She lives in a world where there is no Harry. No red-haired boy that she kisses.
No, there is James—who, for some reason, looks almost exactly like Harry. There is Sirius, the man she kisses. There is Lily with the emerald green eyes. Remus. Peter.
These are the people part of her life.
Not some red-headed boy and a man named Harry.
Why?
The answer is unattainable, just like the memories.
And it always will be.