Owls had always fascinated her. To those of her world, they were simply a means of communication, not better than a pigeon, no bolder than a pet parakeet. But to her, owls took on their ancient meanings of wisdom, secrecy…transition. There was always transition in her life since she was very young, and often not for the better. Discovering that she was a witch at a young age was at first such an interesting and exciting development to her life, but now the thoughts of how her life was suddenly taking such negative turns for the worst made her only beg that her next transition was a positive one.
Soon they would set out for their journey together, and Hermione could not be any more nervous. Ron and Harry could be heard in the room below hers murmurings softly during a restless night's sleep. She lay in bed, contemplating her current situation. Her parents were in Australia, charmed into believing that their daughter never existed, a fact that stung Hermione to the core. But, precautions had to be taken to ensure their safety, after all their unknown daughter was getting ready to go out and destroy pieces of the soul of potentially one of the darkest wizards of all time. She rolled onto her back and let out a soft sigh, attempting not to awaken Luna who slept across the small room for her.
She peered over at Luna, her platinum hair covered most of her face. Hermione could just make out a few soft strands rustling with each deep breath the pale girl took. Hermione marveled at the peaceful sleep that Luna seemed to so effortlessly drift into. She both envied and marveled at the girl's general outlook on life. How someone could so seamlessly float through life, especially at a time such as this, absolutely amazed her.
Her brown curls fanned out around her pillow and her face, small ringlets draping across her neck and tickling her shoulders. She tried to force herself into sleep, but nothing would come. A small stream of moonlight lit the creaky floorboards and intensified the shadows of the room. She saw in them mysterious figures from the back of her mind, each one skillfully cloaking themselves in the corners of the room. Her eyes shut for a brief moment and she was reminded of the faces of those who so often hid behind pale metal masks. There was always one, however, brave enough to reveal her piercing stare to the world as she stayed on the side of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Black cascading curls which seemed like the shadows themselves forming a figure to attack the living. Dark eyes against an alabaster skin which seemed as if it would feel like ice to the touch, and black leather and satin covering her womanly curves and sinewy muscles which were predatorily enough to take down a grown man without effort. Supple lips which would be so becoming if psychotic laughter wouldn't so constantly erupt.
She couldn't relive her mind of Bellatrix Lestrange. The burning scar on her arm served as a constant reminder for whenever her thoughts had reached temporary solace from the wrong minded witch. The word 'Mudblood' crudely carved into her flesh seemed no more painful than the other times which she had been called the name, but it was the fact the Bellatrix had been the one to slowly break her flesh that kept the mental burn. The things Bellatrix could have potentially done to Hermione both terrified and fascinated her. Her nimble hands were capable of creating so much destruction, and her intelligently evil mind held back no ideas.
She turned and looked to her bedside table to see the wand of the woman which was currently haunting her mind. The magical aura surrounding it seemed as black as the ebony locks adorning its owner's head. It was a dark but strong magic, one filled with an intense amount of passion. The connection of the wand and its witch made an almost overwhelming feeling when around it, one of limitless brutality.
Delicately, and ever so carefully, Hermione reached out to touch the crooked wand of Bellatrix Lestrange. As if recognizing the girl's blood status, a shock of negative energy flooded her hand, warning her to stay from the dark woman's wand. Hermione timidly jerked back her hand.
Hermione was becoming mesmerized by the wand, the energy, and the dark witch that it all stemmed from. Her thoughts became a tomb which she buried herself in, and sleep became the farthest thing from her mind. She needed to know why she became so obsessed with this woman, why the witch of her nightmares perplexed her so greatly. She stared up at the ceiling for hours, images of Bellatrix haunting her vision, as if she was watching a film role over and over again.
She reached out quickly for the wand and grasped it entirely in her fist. The surges of energy almost felt like shocks up her arm, but she fought the feeling until the wand's rebelliousness ebbed. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, she realized that sitting here was doing no more than making her lose her sanity. Action, regardless the type, was necessary, and she got up and fled Shell Cottage to walk into the night.