May 5th 1992
There was a distinct sound of bodies hitting the cool ground with a resounding fa-doom, the impact still ricocheting off of the damp walls even after the small witch had fully open her eyes to meet her new surroundings. The room that she was in was illuminated by a singular, dying lamppost, casting a barely visible spotlight across the dingy room. In the stale air swirled wafer-thin layers of dust that lined her heavy lungs with each breath she inhaled, and on the ground, ebony leaves and steely sharp thorns littered the floor and seemed to purposely search for her exposed skin whenever she dared moved. Each subtle movement of her body brought on an onslaught of indescribable torture. She felt it in her joints, each crevice and dip of her body set alight by invisible flames and all she could do was writher and whimper until the fires within her subsided to a numbing tingle.
She stole a moment to regain her breath.
Still on the floor, squinting through the dusty lamp light, Hermione could just make out a ball of shadows unfurl and let out a shudder-inducing scream. It was after the unsteady figure managed to drag themselves upright and limp their way closer and closer to Hermione's spot on the floor, did she find herself unconsciously reeling back into a pile of needle-y thorns in a panic.
It was her turn to scream.
Fallen blood poured out of the open wounds and leaked into the leaves, turning them black before they shrivelled and died with her screams. Hermione cupped her bleeding hand and hissed as the wounds collapsed painfully in on itself and leaving a marring scar her body.
Dark magic, Hermione thought with a shudder.
The shadowed figure shuffled closer.
"Are you alright?" It was Nuttal.
Suddenly, those thorns didn't seem half bad.
As if to prove a point, Hermione was caught off guard when a silver thorn snagged at Hermione's leg, embedding itself deeply ender her fragile skin and drawing a sharp smile onto her ankle. She screamed and grabbed at her left ankle expecting to feel a warm tail of liquid pour out into her hands. Instead, she was surprised to find that she was met with only cool air and the lingering sensation of a phantom sting. Once the stinging had dissipated, in its place, Hermione found, was yet another jagged scar. She cringed.
"Do you need help?" Nuttal asked, crouching to Hermione's level on the ground. Her friendly words were tainted with that eerily calm smile that grace's the girl's face once again and it did more to unsettle Hermione than soothe her.
From this position, Hermione could see the scars that Nuttal herself sported on her way to reach Hermione. Like her own, they were long, thin and impossibly red against her dark skin. But, unlike Hermione, Nuttal didn't seem to be that bothered about it. In fact, despite the eerie smile, Hermione realised that Nuttal's face was devoid of all emotion. If it wasn't for the gut-wrenching scream that she had heard Nuttal make from across the room, she would have thought Nuttal was perfectly fine.
Turning from the girl, she scanned their surroundings instead. It wasn't that she was trying to be rude or anything, but she figured that after being threatened with the witch's wand not moments before, that this Nuttal girl probably didn't have the purest intentions. Sure, Hermione had made the snap decision to save the girl who could've harmed her beyond belief, but that didn't mean that they were now suddenly friends. She didn't know if that was why Nuttal was acting so sympathetic all of a sudden, but Hermione didn't trust her as far as she could throw her and so she didn't see the need to act like she did. The girl was hard to understand and Hermione couldn't wrap her head round the girl's swinging attitudes and it was giving her whiplash.
"Can you get up?" Nuttal barely whispered, eyeing the angry new scar on Hermione's ankle warily.
She shook her head and, shoving away Nuttal's arm, Hermione forced herself to stand. Thorns splintered and leaves crunched under the pressure of her weight, whilst sharp needles splinched off the soft skin of her palms and left her with a myriad of angry scars.
Hermione could barely contain her yells.
Leaning on her knees, she tried in vain to ignore the stiffness of her joints and the painful pinpricks that shot up to her spine as she stretched it. She tried as hard as she could, but that didn't stop her from grunting loudly as her body protested at the movement when she was finally upright.
…
With each relentless scream, Nuttal watched in morbid fascination as the stubborn girl attempted to lift herself up off of the thorn bush and resisted the urge to pull her out herself. Hermione distrusted her, that much was obvious. But regardless of her beliefs, she found herself feeling for the girl. She was a child, after all, and despite her haughty behaviour, Hermione was hurting and she wanted to help her. So, she placed her hands under her armpits, only to be shoved away from the surprisingly strong girl. Nuttal merely shrugged and moved away from her.
She had no need for allies, no need for friends; she only needed to last the four years she had left at Hogwarts anyway.
Turning, she made her way across the room, ignoring the scratching pain at her legs. Looking around seemed pretty useless without her glasses—apparently thick frames didn't transcend realms— or her wand to cast a simple Lumos, but if she squinted hard enough she could just make out her surroundings.
To her left, Nuttal could just make out the outline of one of the little shrubs caked in cobwebs and to her right, an identical shrub-like object lay parallel. Weaving her way to one of them, Nuttal took a sharp inhale of breath. Whatever light the lamp had left to cast reflected off of the plant and they gleamed tantalisingly in the darkness. It had been adorned with some sort of glistening fruit, shining like oddly placed fairy lights. The closer she got to the fruit, the more enticing it got. It called to her, it seemed, and in her blind wandering she was in no position to ignore the pleas emanating from the glittering objects. She ignored the irritated nipping at the back of her head telling her to move away and allowed herself to be drawn into the invisible pull.
As she inspected it, Nuttal quickly realised that it was not fruit, but in fact hanging, golden teeth, each one sharper and darker than the other. After moving to the school, she had taken a keen fascination to the subject that she had not been offered at her old school, and thus had read and reread her Care of Magical Creatures textbook like a bible. She prided herself in being able to recognise different magical creatures, even if the subject wasn't as interesting to the other students in her year. She liked it so much that despite her seemingly cold demeanour, Professor Kettleburn took a liking to her, and she often imagined that if he still had his hand, he would give her a thumbs up for every answer she got correct.
The teeth looked near-identical to the ones that she had seen in her Care of Magical Creatures textbook back at Hogwarts, she noted. Long, curved and incredibly sharp, there was no doubt in her mind what creature this beauty belonged to. She was certain of it: they belonged to the Basilisk.
She shivered involuntarily, but the attraction was too hard to resist and, like Eve, she was tempted by the call of the snake.
So, she pulled.
Suddenly, Nuttal was ripped away from her trance at a small shriek behind her.
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