"Hermione Jean Granger. Time itself is unraveling before us," the strange man stepped too close to her, breath mingling with her own, "But, in this last moment, I promise you that I will give you the world."
A/N: Welcome to my new story! Expect a bit of a fun, dark twist on Tomoine (that will include a brief dabble in Dramione for those of us who happen to deeply love both). Yes, there's time travel — per usual — but there's also a bit of romance, a pseudo-forced marriage, some tampering with the ~old magicks~ and political scheming.
"I'm telling you — he's after the Hallows!"
"Harry, that's ridiculous," Hermione chided, "It's a children's tale. You're just fighting to make it real because you want an answer."
"No, I'm telling you!" He rushed to say, "You heard Potterwatch. Voldemort's abroad — he's going for the Elder Wand! He's got to be!"
Ron rushed forward and pressed his hand over Harry's mouth, but it was too late. The tabooed word was already spoken and, no matter how hard Ron tried to shove it back in, could not be taken back. The sneak-o-scope whirled rapidly, emitting a high-pitched buzz as its many components squeaked and brushed against each other.
Quick on her feet, Hermione raised her wand at Harry and shot a stinging jinx at his face. His lips and cheeks swelled causing his eyes to nearly shut, his features distorting themselves enough to hide his identity. It wasn't much, but Hermione hoped her effort would stop him from being recognized immediately. Ron pulled the Deluminator from his pocket and opened it, sucking all the light from the room as it flew from the fireplace and lamps towards him.
The three friends were holding their breath in the pitch black tent, all considering their options. It would be of no use to apparate; it would leave a trace. Hermione's wards were only designed to keep people from finding them, not from entering their campground. Warding charms were created with the intention of protecting a household. A stationary household. Such charms offer some protection over a temporary residence like their tent, but were designed to grow in strength by drawing upon the magic of the household's land and occupants. So, as soon as someone had the trio's exact location, such wards would not offer much more protection than a simple confounding charm.
So, they waited. Every breath passed felt like minutes. By that measure, they waited no more than 20 or 30 before they heard voices surrounding the tent. At first they imagined it was one or two, but there quickly accumulated the sound of too many feet to make up just one group of snatchers.
"Bloody hell!" A voice shouted.
"Greyback, we've been ambushed!"
Ron's hand gripped tighter around Hermione's wrist, digging his nails into her skin. She shifted imperceptibly, biting her lip to hold in a gasp of sudden pain. Harry's face was already beginning to deflate, his scar slowly unfurling from the crevice between two hives on his forehead.
A bright green light briefly illuminated the otherwise dark tent, giving form to six or seven hooded figures on the other side of its fabric. The shadowed scene was nothing like what any of the trio had ever seen before. It appeared the mysterious, hooded group was fighting off the snatchers. One merely flung his arm and the notoriously well-trained Fenrir Greyback was launched from the ground into the sky, following the trajectory of the figure's movement. Another seemed to gut one of Fenrir's companions with a twist of his wrist. It seemed, to any reasonable bystander, they were attacking silently, and were entirely wandless.
Within moments, one of the hooded figures stepped through the tent flaps and stopped suddenly, eyes seeking out the trio huddled behind the kitchen counter. Hermione could feel his gaze on her, somehow seeming to right cut through the wooden counter.
"Granger, you're coming with me."
Ron jumped up immediately, and brandished his wand, defending his would-be girlfriend. Harry turned and gaped at Hermione, who was trying to keep Ron from doing anything stupid. They were clearly out-numbered and, as much as she hated to admit it, would probably have more success in escaping if only they took a moment to gather their wits.
Too late.
"Stupefy!"
The figure merely chuckled at Ron's novice attack. Then, with a wave of his hand, everything went black.
Hermione Granger did not remember how she ended up in such a soft bed. The bunks in the tent were narrow and hard, topped with scratchy sheets and some of Molly's knit blankets. But, now she was stretched out in a luxuriously large bed topped with a sinfully soft throw and a warm duvet. There was a pile of pillows sunken significantly by the weight of her head over which her hair was spread, as tangled and unruly as always. She moaned and stretched as she woke up, feeling as if she had just come off a sleeping draught: her mouth was soured and her eyes heavily crusted over, her head felt heavy and her limbs slow to move.
Eventually, she coerced her eyelids into opening and was met with some of the brightest, whitest light she had ever seen. Her bed seemed to be facing the room's only window that looked out over clear blue water.
Wait. Water? Where the hell am I? She wondered.
She surveyed the room. She was alone.
And where the hell are Harry and Ron?
Slowly, the night's events came back to her. Snatchers. Panic rose clamped around her throat and rose in her chest like bile. But, she swallowed it, now far too well versed in keeping calm. She forced herself out of the bed and walked gingerly toward the window. What she saw was definitely not England.
She was greeted with a curving coastline, cloudless sky and a bustling crowd.
It's obviously a popular place, even though it's not yet summer — when is it exactly? We've been on the run for so long that I can barely remember. Early April, perhaps? Or, well, if it stopped snowing in the Forest of Dean about a month and a half ago… March is more likely. And, unless I've been moved to the tropics — which it doesn't seem — I'd reckon that's the Mediterranean.
"Welcome to the Riviera," a gentle voice echoed from behind her.
Hermione whipped around and reached for her wand. She found herself patting desperately at an empty thigh-holster.
"Just a precaution," a tall girl near the door said, "I assure you, you have nothing to worry about here."
Hermione quirked her head at the girl, but felt largely unthreatened. She was taller than her by a few inches and had dirty blonde hair that fell most of the way down her back. She smiled peacefully back at her as she took in her image.
"'I've been sent to get you ready before you meet our master," she said, "I've been told you've been on the run for months. You must be dying for a bath."
"I'll not be readying myself for anyone!" Hermione scoffed, rearing back as if she'd been struck, "You will take me now and you will take me exactly as I am."
"As you wish," she said, raising an eyebrow, "Come with me."
She was led through a main hallway into perhaps the grandest room she had ever seen. It was nearly as big as the Great Hall and appeared to be an old ballroom, likely dating back to la Belle Époque. The ceiling was high and arched, constructed of wrought iron and heavy glass. The walls were a pastel shade of salmon, decorated with display cases of what at first appeared to be fine china and silver trinkets, but, with a stronger look, revealed themselves to be glamoured dark objects.
Charming, Hermione thought caustically. So, not a friendly meeting.
The ballroom doors opened and entered a column of the same hooded figures from the previous night. There were 6. They split into groups of three and stood in two rows in the center of the room, separated by a several foot space.
Curious.
Then, a man one would imagine stepped out of a fairytale came through the doors and passed through the opening offered by the hooded men. He looked nothing like the others in the room. He wore grey trousers and a black turtleneck that brought out his dark features. He had a strong jaw and dark eyes that flashed amber when they caught the light just right. His cloak billowed as he strut forward, seeming to swirl around his ankles. Suddenly Hermione felt very conscious of her own appearance. She looked down at her own ratty jeans, marked with dirt from the forest floor and scuffed around the edges from rubbing against her sneakers. She had the horrible feeling of being very unprepared for what was about to happen.
As the figure was soon approaching her, she looked up and held her chin high. She put on her strongest voice and demanded, "Where are my friends?"
The man waved his hand in a blasé manner, "Safe."
She let out a breath and visibly relaxed. She had no reason to trust this man, but felt it was true. She had been, after all, well-enough taken care of. For a captive, that is.
He closed the last few feet between them, walking up and touching her face gently, nearly in awe, the way a lover might in a moment of intimacy.
"Hermione Jean Granger," He breathed, "You're better than I imagined."
She suddenly felt as if she couldn't move, shouldn't. Her feet were glued to the ground, her muscles stiff with anticipation.
"How do you know who I am?" She whispered, feeling this conversation was theirs, meant only for the two of them.
"Time itself is unraveling before us," the strange man stepped too close to her, his breath mingling with hers, "But, in this last moment," his lips nearly touching her own, "I promise you that I will give you the world."