Chapter Two

The room was stark white. The walls, the floor, the table, chair, and lamp – white. White and perfect. The edges of the furnishings were just right, not too sharp or too dull – clean and streamlined. The corners found between the four walls formed perfect ninety-degree angles. The floor was impeccable – not a speck of dirt or dust to be found, and the pearly drapes hung closed and to the floor. The room had an eerie feel about it, it was almost too perfect. Even though the curtains were drawn, the room had an odd brightness to it - as if the ceiling were made of glass, or there was no ceiling at all. Hermione looked up as if to test this particular possibility, and blushed as she stared at the ceiling – solid and normal and white, white, white.

Enough of this, she thought. And with that, she turned around to head out the way she came in. Confusion colored her head as she stared at the solid wall she was now facing.

There's no door, she quivered. A quick wave of panic rushed through her, and she instinctively reached into her pocket. Gone. Her wand was gone. She whipped back around to face the room, frantic now for a way out.

She jumped when she saw the boy.

He was pale; almost as white as the walls around him. He lay in a heap on the hard floor. He was naked, curled in the fetal position, and still as stone. As Hermione took a step closer to him, she wished out loud that he was alive. What would she do if he was? Would her fate be the same?

She was now standing over the boy. She couldn't see his face, and she was too afraid to even say his name for fear there would be no answer – turning him over or checking his pulse was completely out of the question. She looked all around her, for what she didn't know – perhaps a clue as to what to do next. Her eyes fell on a set of drapes. Hurry, Hermione, climb out the window and get help, she thought to herself. Why didn't I think of that before? She ran to the curtain, pulled it aside, and screamed in horror. The solid wall behind the curtain was stained red. Streaks and splatters of blood covered the wall, and towards the ground – the imprint of a small hand. Hermione doubled over and swayed slightly. The room began to spin slowly, beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She suddenly felt cold as ice. It wasn't long before Hermione found herself on her hands and knees, gagging and heaving, vomiting on the perfect floor. Kneeling in her own sick, Hermione struggled for breath.

Suddenly, in a panic and running solely on adrenaline, she ran to the next set of drapes. As she ripped them aside, her breath caught in her throat as she gawked at the all-too-familiar scene in front of her. Nearing hyperventilation, she ran from curtain to curtain, pulling each aside with fear and alarm and anger – nothing changed.


She reached the final curtain and nearly tore it down with force. Hermione gasped at the sight of the clear white wall in front of her. She closed her eyes, turned around, and leaned back against the freezing wall. A blend of emotions ran through her, though she couldn't recognize a single one – relief? disgust? horror? She knew this wasn't ideal, but she was overwhelmed by all of the sensations passing through her body at once, and the clean wall gave her some sense of hope.

As her breathing steadied, she slowly opened her teary eyes. She choked on the air, her eyes widened with terror, and her blood ran cold. There in front of her, not three yards away, was the boy.

He was standing now, but not entirely straight. He was crouched down, and looked about to pounce. His posture certainly scared her, but that was nothing compared to the face that started back at her. His features were hollow and sharp. His eyes were a dark gray – almost black, and they stood out even more amongst his pale white skin.

And he smiled a twisted, evil smile. And his mouth was filled with blood red teeth.


Hermione woke with a start. Soaked through with sweat, eyes watering and mouth dry, she attempted to untangle herself from the mess of sheets she found herself in. She looked to her left and saw Crookshanks peering at her questioningly. "Oh, no need to help, I'm sure I'll manage," she muttered, still struggling.

Once she finally freed herself, she paused at the foot of her bed, wondering what exactly to do next. She thought back to her nightmare and shuddered a bit. Where all that came from, she had no idea. She wasn't sure who she should mention it to; she was walking on eggshells with her friends as it is. She decided she would ask Harry about it casually, in passing, just to get it off her chest. He would be the most logical, and perhaps least judgmental, and say nothing more than some reassuring words to calm her shaken nerves. If she mentioned it to Ron, he would most likely complain that she was dreaming about other men, and miss the point completely. Ginny, on the other hand, would try to find some divine subliminal meaning behind it, which Hermione didn't believe in.

For the first time, Hermione looked over at the clock by her bed. Only three hours, she thought. I've only been in bed for three hours. She rolled her eyes and muttered a quick charm to dry her damp clothes, took a sip of water, and laid down – knowing full well she wasn't getting that great nights' sleep she had planned on. Still, she closed her eyes, and tried to keep the image of the bloody walls and that evil face from entering her mind once more. Eventually calming down, Hermione fell into a rough, shallow sleep.