Metamorphosis
A/N: I own none of these characters, I just own the plot. And I'm only saying it once.
She was walking down the corridor, her heart pounding and her stomach doing flip flops. She knew she was going to see him, her friend, and he lit her up inside. She loved sitting next to him in Potions, and how his leg would just brush hers, and he'd look at her with those big green eyes. She knew he was everyone else's savior, but he was her friend, and her crush. And he had asked her to meet him in one of the abandoned classrooms here on the fourth floor under the pretext of talking about something he was having trouble with in some class, but she had the sneaking suspicion he was going to do something more interesting. Maybe kiss her. Her cheeks flushed at the thought, and then it was difficult for her to focus on where she was, she was so excited and full of anticipation. She was looking around, trying to regain her bearings and find the damn door, when she felt it.
It was a hand, grabbing a huge handful of her rich brown curls, getting a good, fast grip on the back of her head and suddenly pulling. Hard.
She felt the hand pull down, and she was suddenly slammed to the floor. Her mind was racing, and every bone in her body was telling her to scream, but she was frozen, no sound would come out. And it wasn't the influence of a Silencing spell either; she just couldn't make a sound. It wouldn't come out. She felt her body frantically struggling, grabbing and scratching at the hand, wrist, and arm that held her, and was dragging her from the hall into a room. Her heartbeat was pounding in her veins, she could feel the blood rushing around within her body as if her very skin were holding back seawater crashing into cliffs, and it was sounding just as loudly in her ears. The pulsing in her ears was not loud enough, however, to distract her from the present: her body being picked up off the floor and shoved to the front of the classroom, towards the teacher's desk. She was suddenly spun about and her back was slammed into the desk edge, she was finally facing her attacker. She knew those eyes. He was looking down at her body, where he had a firm grip on her hipbones, digging his thumbnails into the soft flesh of her stomach through her shirt. She let out a tiny whimper, a mewl of protest against his hands and their movement to move her robes to the side, sliding up under her crisp white button down shirt. He looked up, his eyes boring into her own at this sound and scowled, the back of his free hand smashing into her cheek before she saw it coming. The sting of his slap tingling and prickling the skin on that whole side of her face. Suddenly her mind woke up, thoughts racing through it seeming so different than the deafening silence of the moments before:
He's going to rape me. I can't let this happen. Scream. Why can't I scream?! Screaming would bring help, someone would hear, someone would come help me, someone would save me from this, from him. NO, screaming would draw attention, someone would come, someone would see, someone would know that this is happening to me. I can't scream anyway, my mouth isn't working. Oh God-
His hand was moving. He had unbuttoned her shirt; he was tugging at the button closure on that lovely plaid kilt, her favorite part of their uniforms.
I can't even move. I could fight him off, I could run, I could escape. But my legs feel like lead, I can't reach for my wand. My body isn't listening to me: RUN! RUN! RUN!-
He gave up on the skirt. She could only stand there, standing as stiff as a board and trembling violently. He seemed angry at his inability to get her skirt off. Her back-handed her again, not seeming to care that the right side of her face was already turning black and blue. Her mind went silent again after the second blow, he pushed her down onto the flat of the desk and spread her knees, prying her thighs apart with his fingertips, pushing the offensive skirt up and put of the way. When she moved to sit up again, her one and only attempt at escape little more than a twitch, he slammed his fist into her ribs, and she heard the crunch, the screaming sound of snapping bones. She gasped in pain, sucking in air, trying to imagine herself anywhere but here. She felt him pull off her knickers, she vaguely heard him unzip his pants, but her eyes were blurred with tears and her mouth was full of blood from where his second blow had split her lip. She suddenly felt him, pushing into her flesh, an almost tangible sound of ripping flesh and the hot surge of her own blood rushing from within her down her leg. Her heart was pounding, but she couldn't see his face anymore, so this couldn't possibly be real. The pain within her, the feeling that she'd been filled with hot metal, and that it was pushing up through her body, drilling through her very soul and threatening to puncture right through her at any second, as if all the blood and pain would burst right up put of her mouth. The smell of his skin and sweat and what he was doing to her was flooding her nose, making her gag, making her stomach turn and flip, she felt as if she might throw up. Then suddenly, the pain stopped, the hot metal was taken out, and let out a silent sigh of relief-until she felt the hot spray of sticky viscous liquid on the inside of her thigh. She couldn't stop the tears. The ocean that was her heartbeat had become tears, and it was flooding out; but silently now. And she couldn't hear her heart anymore either.
It's stopped. I'm dead.
He pulled her up by her shoulders, but he was pointedly avoiding making eye contact with her now. He spoke quietly, and hissed, as if all this was her fault, her doing.
"Clean yourself up Hermione."
She looked up from her body just in time to meet his eyes, the color of fresh grass. He turned and walked out. She couldn't move for a moment, unsure that her legs would hold her upright. She just sat there and stared off into space, so unsure of everything that had just happened. When she spoke it was quiet, broken, and terrified:
"I really am dead."