AN: Normally, I update once a week. But sometimes its sooner, and sometimes it's a bit later, especially when school is in session. Expect updates at least every 10 days or so. Also, thank you to my first reviewers, I appreciate the feedback.
Chapter 2 Gateway
This was wrong.
Hermione tapped her chalk against the stone floor, giving an involuntary shudder as the sound echoed through the barren classroom.
Tap-tap-tap
Tap-tap-tap
Tap…tap…tap
She calmed as the sound faded away, but the stiffness did not leave her shoulders. The silence that permeated through the old castle was oppressive, and heavy, but it felt wrong to break it. Almost against her will she started tapping the chalk stick against the ground again, this time gently enough to keep the sound from echoing.
This has to be perfect. She bit her lip and consulted the book again. Around the basic ritual she had scribbled her own notes into the margins, what had worked… what had gone wrong. The thick vine-like scar on her neck pulsed, and she had to resist the urge to scratch it.
Throb-throb-throb.
She swallowed heavily and tried to ignore the phantom pain.
No more mistakes.
Hermione returned to her work, ignoring the little voice that whispered each and every rule she was breaking as she broke it.
Over thirty now. She thought, jaw clenching as she traced a rune into the stone. But who is left to punish me? That silenced what conscience she still had. She spelled her wrist for steadiness when she started to draw the more complicated patterns, hardly breathing as she made perfect circles, lines, triangles, squares. A muggle computer couldn't achieve more perfect results, she thought, taking a step back to observe her work.
She idly wiped chalk dust onto her ragged jeans as she walked the full circumference of the circle. No gaps, that was good, it was even as well, that had been her problem last time. Magic had built up in the uneven portions, much like a clogged artery, and then gave out mere minutes after she had stared the ritual.
The resulting explosion had almost killed her. The memory made her scar start to ache again.
Throb-Throb-Throb
With great care she put her materials away. Stalling. She mentally chided herself as she slipped the ritual book, her chalk, and the half eaten remains of her lunch into her bag. Stalling. She accused again as she washed her hands, using what water she had left instead of spelling them clean. STALLING. She hissed at herself a final time as she bound her hair back into a messy bun.
There was nothing left to do.
If her hands hadn't been spelled for steadiness, she knew they would be trembling. She could feel her pulse quicken, and her scar grew hotter as fear set in. The angry pulse of the old injury grew stronger as she entered the ritual circle.
.THROB.
She lay on her back, coordinating herself so her head pointed east, toes west, arms stretched out north and south. Hermione started her spell.
Her voice rang out, clear as a bell, despite the terror threatening to choke her, and a phantom wind started to blow. Old dust stirred and she had to shut her eyes against the grit. While her eyes were protected, her lungs were not. She inhaled great dirty mouthfuls of it, and she had to fight the urge to cough.
If she wavered, for even a second, the spell would tear her apart. Tears caressed her cheeks.
I don't want to die.
She wanted to moan as ancient magic worked its way under her skin, finding her bodies' personal ley lines. She was earth, and water, and wind, and fire. Her magic burned in her chest like a hot coal, trying to sear its way out of the fragile container that held it. Hermione couldn't move, could hardly breathe, and she was sure she was babbling nonsense now although it didn't matter. The magic knew what to do now without vocal direction, her intent, her iron will was all that mattered now.
You know what I want, now DO IT.
Her magic roared in compliance, and her soul rose out of her fragile body. There was no pain, her neck no longer ached, and she could see without having to worry about the grit still swirling in the crackling air. She was lighter than air, she could dance on the wind if she wanted. She might have done just that if a sudden angry pulsing hadn't drawn her attention.
The body, her body, was glowing red, and long thread like things rose up to wrap around her ankles and wrists. Her life tether, to keep her from true death. The strong tethers reminded her that she had a mission, she could not simply dally about and whirl with dust motes.
Its working! She thought, giddy as a first year Hufflepuff. The magic was holding, no explosions, no pain. Now all she needed was the gate. "Gate." She ordered and the ritual magic flared at her command. An old white picket fence appeared in front of her, it reminded her of the fence that surrounded her grandmother's house.
Not quite what I expected. But I suppose a gateway is a gateway.
She looked down at her body one more time. It seemed as if she were sleeping peacefully, harmless, helpless. The protections will hold. She assured herself, gently placing a hand on the wooden gate. I have to believe that. The gate swung open at her touch, and with only a moment's hesitation, she floated through.