A Different Kind of Gravity
A/N: I am completely blown away by the amazing response the opening received! Thanks to: Saene, evil-sami-poo, 0Rosina0, Sakura Takanouchi, Ankoku Dezaia, Chou Hime, Excel Go Boom, chocolaterox92, Madame Dee, xXTwilight PrincessXx, JaceDamian23, 930, Coco96, NightRaven13, Serenity12345, IloveTHISstory, Charlotte232, My Misguided Fairytale, deidarawannabe, xiia0moonlight, sunshine'n'sarcasm, SilverLugia101, Ilaaris, Elavie, Serenity Blossom, and Amylion. Thank you all so much for reviewing!
To everyone on alert on 10/28: I have gone back and made some slight yet important changes to Chapter One, so I would advise that you all go back and skim through it, just so some of the things in this chapter don't seem out of place. I'm following a new idea I had recently concerning the plot later on, so if my reasons for changing things seem mysterious, just wait for it! If JLMWUA is any indication, I'll always come through in the end with good reasons for the crazy things I write xD
The end of this chapter gets somewhat dark. You have been warned.
Yet again, much love to the beta, Sakura Takanouchi.
"…which in all the years of time has taught itself no boon of death but only how to recreate, renew; and dies, is gone, vanished: nothing—but is that true wisdom which can comprehend that there is a might-have-been which is more true than truth, from which the dreamer, waking, says not 'Did I but dream?' but rather says, indicts high heaven's very self with: 'Why did I wake since waking I shall never sleep again?'
William Faulkner, "Absalom, Absalom!"
Recap of Chapter One:
She glanced at the door to her left, waiting.
And then it opened.
Chapter Two: Solitaire
Really, Hermione didn't think that it was possible for anyone to open a door that slowly. It creaked with the sound that only aged wood can accomplish, sliding open at a pace slightly slower than a flobberworm's maximum miles-per-hour record.
She also supposed she shouldn't be completely shocked when, for the second time that day, she had come face-to-face with the darkest wizard of their time, his twisted face just as sinister as she'd remembered, with a slightly pallid Lucius Malfoy standing reverently next to him.
"Where is the body? We will need to dispose of it." Voldemort's words were brusque and rough, the sound seeming to bounce off of the walls and high ceilings of the impressive entry hall of Malfoy Manor, making the figure before her all the more intimidating. If Hermione was not dead, she figured that she would be very worried right about now.
She also figured that Lucius Malfoy was thinking along the exact same sentiment.
"M-Milord?" Lucius was a talented actor when he needed to be, but the genuine confusion in his voice was unmistakable. "What body, exactly, are you referring to?"
"My body?!" Hermione's own voice screeched; she was sure she'd never done this much abuse to her vocal chords in her life. "Don't you dare!"
Hermione didn't care that she was talking to two people, that for all intents and purposes, could not hear a word she was saying. She didn't care that Voldemort looked ready to murder Lucius for his indiscretion, before tensing at her words, his head shifting back until his eyes firmly locked on hers.
If Hermione was wondering what was happening, she was certainly not alone. It took her a moment to realize that, for some reason, Voldemort appeared to be staring right at her—or, more correctly, Hermione thought, the place my eyes would be if I was not dead.
I should be dead! What in the name of Merlin am I doing back here?
"Lucius, leave me."
Hermione was jolted back to reality at the sound of his voice, wondering briefly if he sounded that way all the time: apathetically short, yet almost cultured-sounding in its tone. She supposed that her recent condition was making all rationality leave her head as she wondered how a voice that odd would sound reading the Quidditch commentary, disregarding how quickly she'd succumbed to the isolation of her situation, with the only thing she had to turn to was her mind, when that deep voice spoke again.
"Just what is going on?" He seethed, and Hermione's jaw dropped open, realizing with sudden clarity that he had been looking at her just a few seconds ago.
He had been looking at her.
He could see her.
Hermione gulped. She really didn't know whether to be happy or extremely worried about that. She settled for the latter.
"WHAT?!"
Voldemort showed no reaction to her sudden and exceptionally loud outburst, instead cocking his head slightly to one side, appraising the girl before him who appeared to still be adjusting to this sudden onset of new information.
It took Hermione a few more seconds to recover from the shock, and a few more to close her jaw from its hanging position before she turned back to him.
Well, he seems to be taking this well, she thought.
She found her voice, finally answering his question. "Don't ask me that. I have no idea what's going on." She had nothing to lose, and figured that she couldn't die twice. Look at where my Gryffindor courage got me, she thought as she mustered whatever bravado she had left. She shot him a condescending look. "I know I have you to blame for this."
If anything, Voldemort looked amused by her continuous outbursts. "You can hardly blame me for your fervent inability to let go of reality," he remarked. "You are a ghost."
Hermione really didn't need anyone else reminding her of this fact.
"I"—Hermione really figured she was stretching the limits of whatever surprising amounts of patience he had shown so far, and Hermione just had to wonder why he hadn't blasted her to nothing already, or at least tried to; but again, she had nothing to lose—"am not afraid of death."
She braced herself for whatever sea of wrath was floating above her, but it never buried her. Again, she had to wonder why he was so calm—curiosity, maybe? She thought.
"The consequences show otherwise." His voice was smooth as glass.
"I am stuck here. At this house." Hermione had no idea why she could not stop talking, but the words were already out.
One eyebrow rose; she saw the red glint in his eyes shift. She didn't know what that meant. She didn't think she ever wanted to know.
"I see. And this concerns me, how?"
Hermione's mouth opened again; now she had the opposite problem, and could not find the proper words—any words, really—to answer his question or extract any more information about anything she could do to help her own situation or reverse this overlapping of two different worlds, for that was the only conceivable explanation she could think of for what was happening to her. If she was a full ghost, Lucius could see her. She didn't understand, but wished for immediate clarity in some form. She had never heard of anything like this before.
A cluttering noise sounded from the winding staircase above them, and seconds later Bellatrix Lestrange descended, a look of deepest regret painted on her gaunt features.
"My Lord." She waited to speak until she had reached the bottom of the stairs, bowing deeply before him. "I wish to apologize for my inability to subdue Potter"—she spat the name—"and kill his companions for you, rest assured I will accept any punishment for my actions and will be even more determined in the future to do your bidding." Her eyes almost glittered with anticipation at the expectation of his torture.
Hermione looked away distastefully. It really was disgusting, how she fawned all over him, almost robotic in her devotion. She felt slightly sick at the prospect of being stuck with nothing but watching this for entertainment.
"Enough. I will return later, Bella," he told her. His eyes never moved to where Hermione stood once.
She heard the telltale crack of apparition mere seconds before a different kind of blackness engulfed her entire body. It felt like she was being torn in every direction at once, the thunderous rushing roar all around her tantamount to the circling winds of a hurricane as she shrieked to the darkness, finding her body frozen and her mouth unable to move, the air pressed out of her lungs as she sought just one more scorching breath.
Within another second it was over, the pain feeling just as fresh in her mind even as it slowly abated. She could move now, looking around to once again be face-to-face with her most dreaded enemy.
What?
Still numb from both pain and shock, it took her a moment longer to register their surroundings. She had no idea where the two of them were, but it was fairly dark, and the air felt clammy on Hermione's skin, like they were in a cave or basement or somewhere else near-underground. From the twisted expression on Voldemort's face, she realized that he was just as equally surprised by her sudden appearance as she was.
"How did you get here?" His anger scared her more than anything she'd ever encountered, but she stood her ground, wanting to throw her earlier words right back at him.
I have no idea what's going on.
And then it hit her. She couldn't possibly be attached to the house; she had left it, hadn't she? And what she experienced was definitely not normal apparition. She was left with only one disturbingly obvious answer, calling out to her like a lighthouse.
She was sure that they both had realized it at the same time, but she was the one who spoke first.
"It's you…" She backed away. "Not the house…" She trailed off; incredulous, doubting, but still unable to refute the evidence staring her in the face—for he hadn't moved since she'd arrived, and had yet to speak a word to her in opposition to her revelation.
She gasped, throwing her hands up around her mouth to keep herself from screaming at the new comprehension that coursed through every fiber of her being, her eyes wide with realization at the implications that such a revelation brought.
Somehow—and she really didn't want to begin to think about how—she was attached to him.
She didn't know what that meant; how in the hell can that be possible?
But more importantly; what did I do to deserve this?
She couldn't have possibly screwed up this badly; she'd never failed an assignment, never lied or stole if she could help it—the polyjuice incident still haunted her conscience—she never even got coal in her stocking, for Merlin's sake!
And, now my own murderer is refusing to let me rest in peace!
In another light she would have appreciated the irony; speaking of light, Hermione had just enough of it to register for the second time that they were most definitely not at the Manor anymore.
"Where…where are we?" She asked suspiciously, instantly trying to take in as much of it as she could.
She could discern the sudden and chilling appearance of a thin smirk on Voldemort's pale face through the dim lighting.
"That is no concern of yours."
The words were harsh and bitter, yet she could easily hear them in the weighty silence before only reserved for their breathing until the starry blackness dissolved before her eyes once more and she was pulled back into the disparate apparition, pressure squeezing her from inside and out as she sought desperately for an escape, only to be granted one when she thought she could take it no longer.
They emerged once more, this time in a brightly lit parlor room; Hermione was disoriented by the sudden brightness of this new room and in the reassurance of the proper workings of her lungs as she gasped for breath.
She hoped he wouldn't make a pattern of doing that. Wizarding travel was so harsh; apparition, portkeys, floo powder, broomsticks—seriously, either they just enjoy banging themselves around or they just have tougher skin than I do. Or simply have death wishes.
The voice of Voldemort once again jolted Hermione back to the present. "Now," he spoke smoothly, but Hermione knew the deadly intent behind the words. "We are going to figure out what is causing this, and then I will be rid of you."
If Hermione wasn't scared out of her mind, she would've laughed. He was the victim in this situation? Hardly, she thought wryly.
"Where are we?" She coughed out instead, looking out the windows to see crawling ivy vines covering nearly everything in sight. She looked back over to the rest of the room, noting the impeccable state of the antique-looking furniture and paintings. No dust in sight.
"Riddle House," he answered curtly.
"Why are we—"
He cut Hermione off before she even had time to finish her question. "I reside here from time to time so that I might learn how to hate it better."
All she could manage was a slightly delayed "…Oh."
"Why would you wish to remain in this life?" Voldemort's question made Hermione slightly angry; haven't we been over this before? She thought irritably. I am not the one with the mortality mania, thank you very much.
"I. Don't. Know." She shot back, crossing her arms over her chest to further emphasize her point. "I certainly wouldn't wish for this." She gestured at herself and around her with her arms before crossing them again.
"But, I do remember that, right before I, um, died…" Hermione trailed off, unsure how to tell her murderer that, moments before her death, she'd had lingering thoughts of pity and something near akin to compassion towards the man standing before her—thoughts that she could hardly explain after the fact, she decided.
"I felt sorry for you," she spoke, glaring at him from across the room, as though the wayward emotions were somehow his fault.
"I was in your mind. Of course I saw what you felt, girl," he scoffed in response.
Hermione realized that they had gone this long, and he still did not know her name.
"It's Hermione. My name is Hermione."
"Would you have any objections to being returned to the plane of spiritual transience, Hermione?" he asked dangerously softly.
"Would I have any objections to—WHAT?!" Her eyes widened upon seeing his wand in his hand, and before she had any time to blink a wave of green light coursed over her.
Hermione did not even bat an eye, instead snorting at the absurdity of his spell choice.
"And what exactly did you think that was going to accomplish?" She asked, resisting the strong urge to roll her eyes. "I'm already dead. You can't die twice."
At this point she wasn't terribly sure about that last bit of information, but she had memorized the sight of the irritated and confounded expression on his face, for the moment it had lasted. Priceless.
His cold smirk put an instant freeze on any happy feelings she'd had just then; it felt like she was being doused with a bucket of cold water.
"Maybe you cannot," he said mock-thoughtfully. "But most people can die once." I do not need anything from her, least of all her pity. I had been meaning to take care of another Muggle village, and this should teach her not to question me again.
If it was possible, she felt even colder. She fought the urge to shiver just from the sense of his words alone.
She knew what was coming next.
She could never become familiar to the sensation of simultaneously being split apart and put together, and that is exactly what this particular unwilling apparition felt like. She was once again engulfed in darkness, but hardly noticed it as strong feelings of anxiety permeated every muscle in her being.
He was in control; she had never known where they were going to go when the darkness surrounded her.
But it had never worried her so much before.
When she emerged from the darkness, she looked around her with horror.
They were standing in the middle of the street in a suburban neighborhood, the sky just now starting to grow dark, a ring of rosy orange etching the horizon as the sun slipped below its edge.
The street was devoid of any people, but Hermione could see lights in some of the windows, and each had a shiny car parked in the driveway or on the edge of the neatly paved street.
"Where are we?"
Hermione felt like she had been asking that question over-and-over that day. This time, she wasn't sure if she really wanted to know.
"Havering," he told her.
She was more scared by the almost-cheerful sound to his voice. The worry had not left her, but had migrated to the pit of her stomach, settling there like a rock, twisting through the rest of her body as she wondered just what they were doing there.
She didn't want to say it, but her mind supplied the other question; just what was he going to do here?
Voldemort walked forward. "Hmm, we are upwind, so it will have to be this one," he murmured to himself, his wand at the ready in his right hand.
Hermione took a step backwards. Why would it matter if…
She tried desperately to minimize the sound of her gasp, but it escaped her mouth anyways. She was sure he heard it, if his victorious grin was any indication.
"Watch and learn, Hermione," his voice was darkly sinister, his wand moving almost gently as the first house on their left erupted in flames, covering the air in a cloud of smoke and soot blacker than the darkness in the split second of an apparition, the glass in the windows blowing out with the crash of splintering glass from the trapped superheated air. It was horrific.
From his reaction to the destruction around them, Hermione had to wonder what compassion she could ever have felt for this creature. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve anything.
The house next to it went up in flames next, clouds of dark black smoke painting the once-blue sky, tainting it as the smoke rose higher and higher.
Even if she didn't hear screams coming from the insides, Hermione's mind would have imagined them for her.
The paint on the shiny cars was melting; the impeccably green grass was brown, or black, or gone completely in some cases. Hedges were missing; lawn flamingoes were blackened from the flames still licking over the plastic.
One-by-one each house was reduced to a smoldering ruin, until nothing was left but blackened, completely destroyed remains.
Voldemort was walking towards her; Hermione tried to back away, but found that her legs were unable to move. Looking briefly down, she found that to be a lie—her legs could move, but only to tremble violently to a degree she didn't know legs could be capable of. She tried to speak.
"No, we are not done yet," he told her, grinning broadly. "In fact, I'll let you choose where we shall visit next."
Hermione felt sick.
"Hmm, what shall it be?" He asked. "A school, a bank, maybe a hospital? So many choices, Hermione."
She hated the way he spoke her name. It sounded foreign coming from his lips.
"Choose. Now."
She didn't think 'none of the above' was a valid option, and she didn't think her own voice would work properly enough to beg him not to go through with any more. She had read about the attacks on Muggle London over the past few months in newspapers, but she had never thought she would be witnessing them first-hand.
"Time's up. Lambeth Bridge sounds like a wonderful choice." Voldemort's words were laced with dark sarcasm, and the last thing Hermione remembered seeing before the darkness of his apparition closed over her again was the brightness of the red flames against the now-dark sky.
They appeared gently on one of the sidewalks overlooking the Thames, the dark night clouding their sudden arrival. Hermione could see the headlights from the cars racing over the bridge, wondering just how many of them would make it in time.
She found her legs, staggering closer to him.
"Please…" Her throat was dry.
He turned back towards her, and she fought another shudder; she blamed it on the cold.
"What was that?" He asked, his eyes narrowed as another smirk stretched across his face, made even paler by the rising moonlight.
"Don't do it," she whispered.
He could see it in her eyes; her worry, her concern for the useless little creatures moving around London on that bridge, none of whom she knew and none of whom would ever give a second thought about her own well-being.
They should know that the only one a person can count on is themselves, Voldemort thought with disdain, tearing his eyes away from the long strain of cars. They angered him, so he didn't want to look at them any longer.
Without warning, he apparated, and Hermione was unexpectedly tugged along, the strain from the day on her body and mind more than she thought she could take. She felt barely conscious, hardly registering the fact that they had returned to the Riddle House, the antique furniture looking all the more sinister from the darkness surrounding them.
Voldemort approached her, and Hermione stumbled back, her footing unsteady as she realized just what he had done. What the both of them had done.
"Do you feel sorry for me now?" He screamed, his face dangerously close to her own, the features twisted in a palpable contortion of barely contained fury.
She met his eyes bravely, and saw again that same flicker of what she felt moments before her death.
Yes. Of course I do.
A/N: Havering is a London borough I picked at random from a list online.
Obscure references to The House of the Seven Gables in this chapter! Halloween candy to anyone who gets it!
In fact, Halloween candy to anyone who reviews!! This year, I am going as a penguin. Just thought I'd inform you all of that fact xD
As always, any comments on characterization, flow, etc would be much loved! …And you get virtual candy! xD So review away, please!
Love, Kako