AN: Greeting to another Hermione-centric fic. This one wears the red dress of horror. There is no love in here, there never really is one when dealing with demons.
Dark Hermione fic. AU.
CHAPTER 1
The Homecoming
"I don't understand. They said it was just a game, a hoax. It's just a stupid board!" A motherly voice wailed.
"This… are you saying my daughter has been touched by this… this spirit?"
"Lorraine, what is leeching on your daughter is not a spirit -"
"Father you said that stupid board made them communicate with a ghost!"
"-Not a ghost, nor spirit. That thing leeching off of her, is something else."
It only takes thirty seconds for a small flame to turn in to a full-blown life threatening fire. The report said a simple draft stretched the flames that burned down her house. The lingering stench of gas was just an aftermath.
Click. Click. Click.
She imagines the knobs of the stove, clockwise - counterclockwise.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Blue as the Divine Mother's gown. Blue whirl of fire, with edges translucent. Mesmerizing, beautiful. She likes blue she decides. Like little blue bells, with chimes of lullaby. It's song of death and pain.
Her hand doesn't burn with it, but it engulfs the counters and nearby cherry wood. She realize glass shatters, and concrete cracks. She also realize skin does not melt but burns. The smell not appealing.
She wonders if she's gone deaf, or her mother's screams are silent. She wonders too if burning fabric sticks to skin. She can't know, she has to be up close, because from where she stands everything is turning black.
Black. Red. Blue.
Combination of colors as the house start closing in. She stands in the middle of it all. The frills of her blue night dress remains pristine. White ribbons littering on its edges. She thinks it's cute, girly, innocent.
She is a little child, bright hazel eyes round with innocence. He hair like a halo, tinges of copper bleeding on her brown locks, its variation like flames on a burning log.
Her feet remains bare, unscathed, despite the scorching dust circling her in her ring of safety.
Her hands laden with her little dolly, an uncanny replica of her. With the same porcelain skin glittering her, and blood red lips smiling slightly.
She is a pretty little marionette. Her strings not controlled by fate, but lack of faith. It feeds off of her, her innocence seduced by corruption. And her essence, of magic, morphed into malevolence.
This was not suppose to be the way. Somewhere along the way, the path of fate has been perverted. Diverted to passage unknown, somewhere light has not touched.
Little by little she will grow in the shadow, an illusion to the light.
Until it will be too late to realize that she is not bright.
But burning.
"Come on Hermione, let's play a fun game."
"A game?" A timid voice asked warily. They always made fun of her, her bookish ways. Reserved amongst the pages of her books. A little wallflower her mother teased.
"Yes, my friend here has a new board game. Come now, it will be fun. Put that book down." her sitters eyes glittered with mischief, their voice commanding. Their request leaves no room for arguments.
It must be a naughty game her parents won't want her to play. Would it be a sin to get caught?
"Come play with us Hermione."
̶"̶C̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶y̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶H̶e̶r̶m̶i̶o̶n̶e̶.̶"̶
"What kind of board game is it?" she whets her lips in ̶e̶x̶c̶i̶t̶e̶m̶e̶n̶t̶ worry.
"it's a communication board, we'll talk to the unseen."
There is a reason their kind avoid each other. They are both the anti-heroes for the sons of the Maker. Unnatural, abominations, freaks! As they are both persecuted.
They are not enemies, but they don't consort with one another. The fallen angel is still ever living, and they abhor the company of a mortal. Even one with power. Even one with magic.
Nonetheless, a fallen summoned by the child of magic will either be destroyed or devoured.
She, however, was not left a wreck, but instead reborn. Awakened by anarchy. Their merging like a homecoming.
I am finally one.
Ī̶̢͈̯̘̲̣͙̭͈̰͇̜̱̉͑̉̽͗̽̂̓̅̑̂ͅ ̴̩̟̤̦̻̣̑͘ͅą̷̧̢̳͙̮͇͉̱̮̙͖͈̟͚͌̈́̽ṃ̵̯͓̼͈̈́̏̓̓̒͊̽̓͒̅̋̍͜ ̵̡̩̖̼̜̪͚̉̂̉̑͒̂̋̾̂̔̒̏͘ḟ̵̢̛̙̮͎̜͇̬͖͉̗̖̪̙́̈́̈̄̏̀͛̐̈̚ͅͅĩ̴̛̩̹̠̎̽̽̅̆̿̈́̓̈́̃̃͛͘͜ͅn̸̦͒̐a̵̢̻̥͚͙̘͎̤̣̯̯̠͚͉̮͌̇̐̚l̴̢̧̛̛̟̖̹̗̘͇̮̪̠̙̱̱͂́́l̴̢̢̫̫̯͓͖̿͂͂̅̀̌̌̉͛̇̚͝y̵̢̻̱̥̮̻͍̤͔͙̙̹̪̗̮̽̾̅͛̃̽̎̋̕̕ ̷̢̧͖̞̖̀͊͛̉̚ͅò̸̻͖͓͙̱͗͋̊̅͝n̸̨̟̫̪̩͕̣̮̭̠̙̰̪͉͗͝e̶̡͙̟̟̭̩̍͒̏̋̑͗͑͂͝.̵̨̱̬̺͇̰̹̰̖͗̓͗̔͒̒̂̇̊̂̋͜͜
"Sammy! Sammy! What are you doing to Sammy! Stop it FREAK!"
"Quod immundi purificarentur" (The unclean should be purified) her little hollow voice echoed in the room.
"Shut up freak! Stop this!"
"Lorraine the children are here! Oh Lord… Lorraine call an ambulance!"
"Mr. Arnold, she did it! She's doing it!"
Did you know that skin pores is also an orifice. It is just inexplicable how blood could come out from somewhere that shouldn't. It also should not come out of her ears, nor eyes and nose. But she also leaks red, her bottom scruffy jeans tainted with blood, as if her menses dripping down to her ankles pooling around her.
The small floral pattern on her blouse once a blooming sun flower, now bleeding like rose.
She is like a dish sponge, red comes out off her in bubbles. She (Hermione) thinks she's drowning, in her own blood.
Blood in vast amount looks almost black she thinks.
"Lorraine the ambulance!"
"She's bleeding! I don't know where… I?"
"Lorraine!"
"I'm sorry.. Uhm.. 11 Heathgate St. Hampstead Garden, just after corner of Meadway. Hurry, please send ambulance, my daughter's sitter is hurt… she's bleeding."
"Where? I'm not sure, I think everywhere."
I thought I saw the devil this morning, looking into the mirror.
Blood is a stain very hard to clean. Especially on wood floors. It is impossible on carpets.
"Something is not right with her Lorraine."
"How can you say that Arnold? She's our daughter."
"Is she?"
Parents always forget to close the door when arguing. And the foot of the stairs is a comfy niche for snooping.
"The Vicar will help us."
They think that the chains on her bed, the man on the cross and even their tongues praying Latin would relieve her.
Their efforts will be for naught, for they are one now. Nothing can separate them anymore.
"Deliver us from evil. Surrender yourself and liberate the innocent. You who is corrupter of that is pure."
"Release her!" Their prayers but a tickle, even as they shower her in holy tears. It does not work. Because there is nothing to release, she is one. She is home.
H̴̠̪̠̓̉̈́̉͊̊͒̋̀͐̚͜͝ͅǫ̷͕͉͍͙̰̬́́̐͐̋̊͘n̴͙̖͗͌̎̏̃̂̾̓̋e̴͍̫͌͊ŷ̶̡̩̠̜͓̲͉͓͓̈̾͌͊̃̌̀͐̉̕̚ ̴̛̰̖̭̟͓͑̌̐̆͐͊̚͜͝ͅĪ̸͇͙̼̣͇̰̱͕͍̱̾͆̑̃̽̐̊̀̎͑͋'̷̢̥̱̖̖͍̭͙̤̪͖̲͆͒͂͛̍͆́̈́̕m̸̗̐͆̉͆͒̆̽̀͗͝͝ ̵̢̀̓͗̿̽̆̀̎̓͊̓̃͛̀̕h̸̖͈͎̘͙̤̳̦̎͐͜ó̸̢̢̳̩̻̲̙͍̹̰̝͈͇̯͜͝ḿ̵̢̡̺̖̭̯ḙ̸̱̹͉̘̓́̋̇̈́̐̀͘͠!̵̡̛̙͚̖̯̫͈̪̽̃̌̈́̆̅̓͛̌̕
"You are laughable Father. Tell me do you like me on these chains? Like the raw and supple brides you take?" She hears her laughter, wicked and good. Cackling like fire that singes the tips of your soul. Her parents cringe in fright.
The Vicar falters a little but he is not deterred.
"Sancte Michael,
defende nos in proelio
ut non pereamus
in tremendo iudicio."
"You have to hold her down Arnold!"
"Daddy, he's hurting me daddy. Don't let him hurt me daddy." Her eyes suddenly clear and her voice young once more. However her skin remains slick and pale, her dark veins a stark contrast to her sickly pallor.
"I'm sorry baby, this is for your own good." It is not normal for a body to bend so sharply, not even on a young one. Perhaps once she turns eleven they will be enlightened, that shattering windows, her body hovering on her bed, blast of wind on a steady and calm night, are all just accidental castings. Driven by emotion, by fear and rage. Unfortunately, the opportunity will never come.
But never has she felt more control in her own body when magic springs from her very soul. That even the tips of her hair sparkle with unbidden power.
"Veni in auxilium hominum,
quos Deus creavit inexterminabiles,
et ad imaginem similitudinis suae fecit,
et a tyrannide diaboli emit pretio magno."
She grows more annoyed now and the charade of innocence breaks. The pulse of energy sends them all to the walls. Literally. She hears a crack somewhere, and she thinks it's a very beautiful sound. She relish in their pain, their moanings and agony, all a sweet calling.
Like a symphony to her soul.
"En antiquus inimicus et homicida vehementer erectus est.
Transfiguratus in angelum lucis,
cum tota malignorum spirituum caterva late circuit et invadit terram,
-"
Scream more, make it louder! Pitch so high it rings in her ear. Her mother's cry deafening but welcomed. The Vicars skin was easy to peel.
"Father Ignatius! Arnold help me get him out! ARNOLD!"
"Ye.. yes of course Father. Lorainne open the door! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR LORRAINE!"
"I CAN'T!"
"It's "le grand Lustucru" who's crying."
The chaos suddenly stills. Her angelic voice humming her mother's favorite lullaby.
"He's hungry and will eat"
Her hazel eyes stares into her mother's unblinking ones.
"Raw and alive, without bread or butter,"
The tone so serene, yet it neither calms nor appease the last standing priest. The occupants feels shiver down to their bones, a chill making the ends of their hair stand up like there's static.
"All the little kids…"
Her dad tries to approach her, but the Father's sudden grip was tight and solid.
"All the little kids, who aren't asleep."
The apparatuses for praying suddenly afloat. Slowly rising, kissing the ceiling. There is a sudden chill in the room, as if a warning to a tidal of chaos that will be unleashed upon. The calm before the storm. Their heartbeats are erratic, and all of them are sure that there is more sweat clinging onto their clothes now.
"All the little kids, who aren't sleeping…"
Even the bed defies gravity, the wooden chair suddenly swaying mid air. Her night table light as a feather, the only lamp in the room flickering like shining stars in the night sky.
The outside world lost all its sound. No crickets trilling, the trees still as a painting, not even the clouds are breathing. Everything is on arrest, even the single fire on the dying candle has frozen. As if time is at a stand still.
She smiles, her pearlescent white teeth glimmering in the darkened room.
"Ḻ̶̢̙̦̲͈̙͈͖̙̮̞̘̝͛̌͗͜e̴͍̪͔̪͖̗͕͈͉̯͗̍͂̀̈́͆̄̓̀̌̚͝͝ ̸͖̜͚̀͂̈́̾́̔̔̊͐͛̚͠g̴̛̱͑̄͋̂͌͛̕͠ŗ̵̫͕̱̺̯͉̭̭̉̈́̏̒͊̑̌̿̈́͋́͆́̔̚ä̵̛̮̜̖̱͈̳̤̝͌͂̆̓̀͋͛́̐͂́̀͜ǹ̴̢̛̩͕͇̪̻̥̣͖̍͒͗̀̑̏̾̋̚̚͠d̶̼̯̮̪̳́̈́͌̂͐͑́͑͘̚͘ ̴̢̢̯́́̉̂̑̿̽̈́͝L̷̙̉̀͂͋̀̍͆̈́̾̇ͅũ̴̯͍̝̤͎̩̮ͅs̷̟̈́̌̄̃̑̂͂͋̈́̀͛̚͝͠ţ̴̨̫͔̙̼̟̻͙͍̳̈́̐̂̀̏̾ų̶̡̱͓͚͚̹̦͉͈̔̋͋͂̿̎͘͠͝c̵̞̳͕̩̰̦̱̞͓̩̱̔͐͂̿̄̆̕ȓ̷̛͎̫̬̜͕̟̰͕̙͒̈́̒̀̓͒͊̍̕͘͝͝ŭ̶̠̼̲͔̳͔̣̯͚̙̂͌̾̂̌̔̿̈́͊ ̴̧̡͙̯͖̫̙̭̠̰̗̹͔̉͐̄̏̃͊̓̚͜w̴̙̥͙̱̗͉̫̼̠̩̯̮̯̘̏̒̒͆͒̔̈͊̋̓̚̚͝ḭ̷̢̡̲͈͖̘̖͎̜̹͎̍̽̄̔̒͝l̵̻̩̣̖͕̮̼͚̭͎̝̑̃̈́ḽ̶͑̈́́͂͛̿͝ ̶̡̢̬͇̺̪̲͖͉̰̯̩̭̥̭̓̅é̸̢̮̱͔̄͌̕͘͘͝a̵̡̻̯̳͊͂͗̂͒̀̊͘͜t̵̛͔̾̋̈̽͋̆̃̏̃̈̑!̸̧̠̝̱̭̱͚͇͈̖́͒̇" Her warped voice sang.
The tiny flame on the melting blessed candle burst upwards. Like a hungry predator ready to devour all its prey. Its target anything that can burn. It burned everything.
"hmm…" Her shackles fell on the floor, her tiny feet sway to the side of the bed. Everything is burning, but her.
She grabs Daisy, she decides she's her favorite among them all. The porcelain doll is safe from destruction.
Her room once pink, burning to shades of browns and red. It is beautiful. Her fire a dance of blues and oranges. Her life is a rainbow, she paints with her magic.
She is different, she understands. She is other.
Fire is her first magic. But it won't be her last.
They tried to get to her, but even the men in their heavy bunker gear, burns. Their protective equipment charred by her fire. And her fire leaves not only destruction but fumes for suffocation.
In the end it is death that she sees. Bodies of men topple at her feet. She smells their sweat, she smells meat, she tastes their tears, and lavish on their pain. The all burning environment intoxicates her.
It is a holy mess, and she loves it.
That beautiful night, she painted the sky red. For she is Abbadon her calling is to destroy. That night she is the archangel of abyss.
When she crawled out from the falling ruins, away from the debris. The sun is almost shining, and she greets it like an old friend. Because like her the sun is not just bright, but it is burning.
"Over here! There's a survivor!"
Be careful sons of Adam, you don't know who you are saving.
"Don't worry sweet little girl, come here we'll protect you. We'll get you to safety."
"Oh poor thing. What is your name sweetheart?"
̶"̶T̶o̶d̶a̶y̶ ̶I̶ ̶a̶m̶ ̶A̶b̶b̶a̶d̶o̶n̶.̶"̶
"My name's Hermione…"
"Is your family inside? Was there anyone else with you?"
"No… my family is not here anymore."
"Oh you poor child. Don't worry, we'll help you."
For she shall be the image of innocence, even if she is rotten inside.
The institution looked clinical. It stench of bleach and stale bread. Still she doesn't move from the yellow monoblock, stained due to wear and tear. Yet she looks as if a princess on her throne. Her tiny feet now in lilac slippers dangles. She resembles her doll, eerily beautiful and very lifeless. The social worker assigned to her rush to find her remaining family. She is chilled, and the pit of her stomach is churning in anxious fear. The child has yet to cry, she just stare back at her own beady eyes. The lady feels naked, like a wriggling grub under the microscope. The child's stare was unyielding and she tries not to flinch.
At least the other children knows. They shy away from her.
Later she will think back, perhaps she should have given this assignment to another. But her throat was slit seamlessly at the dead of night and any more pondering comes to a halt. It was never safe to walk alone on the streets of London. You never know what monsters come lurking in the shadows.
So she rush the reunion, the child has an Aunt married to a dentist. This is better than nothing. She doesn't think she can last another minute under her gaze.
"Hello Hermione. Remeber me? Auntie Jean?" They said it might be trauma, her unblinking stare should not be daunting but it still unnerves her - this time her Aunt.
"This is my husband, Vince. We'd like for you to come live with us. Would that be okay with you?"
"I suppose." She plays the perfect angel. Timid and shy. Like a little darling.
"Hey little champ. Your Aunt told me you love books. Do you have a favorite?"
"I like all books. They're all my favorites." Her little sweet smile is a charming response as her Aunt brush her face softly. The adults chuckle in amusement, as the little girl charm the room. She is as beautiful just like her mother, and has eyes that could mesmerize you. Lorraine was always the more beautiful between the sisters.
"I think you'll like it there. We have a room there for you already, and we have a small library. You can spend as much time as you like there. And we'll set up your own shelf for you to fill. For more books in the future. That would be lovely isn't it?" Her hair bounced as she bobbed her head in elation. She will be a lovely addition to their family. A daughter they have always coveted.
"Dr.s Granger, the papers have finally been registered. You can bring her home now." ̶T̶a̶k̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶a̶w̶a̶y̶.̶ ̶I̶ ̶b̶e̶g̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶.̶ The lady almost regrets her thoughts. Almost.
Sometimes sudden pressure on open wounds sloppily spatter blood. Even a meter apart it can sprinkle on you. The thief now a murderer runs away with some of the evidence. Perhaps she should not have been so loathsome to a child, it was after all her job. Then the thief would have remained a robin instead of a butcher.
"Let's go home Hermione."
Home. Is there such a thing but her own.
"I'd really love that."
Five years after the fire that left her in the doorsteps of her aunt and uncle, a new character introduced herself.
"Good day to you Mrs. Granger, my name is Professor Minerva McGonagall. I am here on behalf of an extraordinary institution that wish to enroll your very talented daughter - Hermione."
"Oh, yes. Please come in."
At her first step, the Professor faltered. If she were of the faithful she would have realized. If she were of the believer she would have seen. But those of magic are just as blind as Adam, and are easily corrupted like Eve. For their kind should never intertwine, because she holds the forbidden apple. In her hands lays seduction, ripe for the taking. They will mistake her for their Messiah. And it will be their doom.
It will be too late for them to realize, that she is not bright. But burning.
"Oh Hermione! There you are! Come, come. There's a professor here who wants to meet you."
Measured steps come a closer. The devil likes to to fool, that day she is the deceiver. She radiates innocence. It helps her doe eyes are beguiling. Her smiles are sweet enticements, like a cherry sugar quill. Too sweet, too red, too mesmerizing. You will moan with pleasure as the first stroke of your tongue, the treat is a delight. Like the apple you are captivated, seduced. And just like Eden, you will bite, with complete relish. You forgot the arms has scales, and she but a snake. Her fangs will cut you deep. But you are to entranced to be swayed. You do not see a demon, but a child. You only see the wrapper with which the gift comes.
Unfortunately, she will not be the first victim. But one of the many.
"Hello Professor." She has teeth as white as pearls.
And all she could do was smile in return.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the plot. All rights goes to JKR. Sorry for the unstable narration. I am depicting a story teller who is not quite right in the head. When I write, I imagine scenarios.
Enjoy.