Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, and I only own the interpretation of my characters and the nearly nonexistent plot. Also, this is about Tom/Hermione, but at the same time, not really, at least not how you might expect. And before I forget, expect a creepiness factor.
Everybody stares and whispers. Hermione isn't quite sure why. Well, she knows why, but she doesn't understand why. Death happens all the time. It does, really. There's nothing wrong or interesting about it. Not really.
With a sigh, Hermione gets up from the common room chair. The wall has gotten very boring to stare at; Hermione has mapped each imperfection, every dent, every crevice. She knows the wall very well now. There is no reason to look anymore.
Slowly, Hermione arranges her books. First, transfiguration, second, potions, and third, her Hogwarts a History. Hefting them into her arms, Hermione takes her first steps. Each step sounds heavily in the initial silence. Eventually she reaches the door. As she leaves, the whispers cling to her like water to skin. They are her baptism, her rite of passage. She listens to them all.
Poor Hermione-
-It must be so hard.
-She's in shock!-
Don't talk so loud…
Stop staring at her!
From the corner of her eye, Hermione stares at the third year who whispers the last comment. It is a sweet gesture, she thinks vaguely, but more importantly, she wonders how long the little third year's bouts of kindness will last. Hopefully not too long. Idealism is harsh sword with a sharp blade.
Looking down at the worn leather of her books, Hermione continues lost in stagnant lake of thoughts. All her sensations, the touch of the books against her fingers, the musty smell of unaired hallways, the taste of the old air mingling with the pepper imp in her mouth. It's all muted, like a television program only half seen through the blizzard of interrupted signal. Barely a wisp, they only skim the waters of Hermione's consciousness. The only thing she knows for certain is that she feels the impact of her sole-clad feet against the cold stone of the castle. Somewhere in the distance, she imagines that she hears the echo of her steps being swallowed into the stone.
And mostly, all that Hermione feels is the own emptiness inside her mind. It is very empty, and like a stagnant lake, there is nothing. There is no life or sun or rain. There is only still, murky waters.
By the time Hermione arrives at McGonagall's office, there is a distinct chill in the castle halls. Every student that Hermione passed had a slight chill. At least, Hermione thinks they did. There is no other reason for them to shiver when they pass beside each other. Maybe there is also a chill in the rooms, she notes. Even McGonagall's body wracks slightly when Hermione enters despite the roaring heat of the fireplace behind her. But how could McGonagall be so cold and have such a red flush on her skin, like the flush on spring blooms and cherry sunsets? Not, of course, that there are many of those in this place.
Hermione blinks.
"Miss. Granger, Miss Granger," McGonagall's voice is stern. "Miss Granger," she repeats once more, "you may sit."
Original Posting Date: March 3, 2018
Prompt: N/A
Word Count: 500
Note: Writing creepy Hermione makes me strangely happy :) It's a nice change of pace from angst/playful stuff Also, I am busy expect to wait two weeks to a month for updates, it's unfortunate but true :( But be happy! ;)