Disclaimer: I don't own anything, obviously
Prologue
Everything was silent, almost as if the whole world had chugged one too many drinks the previous night. Hermione moaned in her sleep and rolled over, smacking her lips lightly. Something trickled out to corner of her mouth, foul smelling and thick as honey, and splashed on the floor. A chill settled over her, and her breath caught halfway up her windpipe. Hermione was throttled by her own cud for a few seconds, until she woke up spluttering. Stiffly she wriggled herself out of her sheets, which were strangling her alive, and tried to wipe off the sweat that was plastered over her. It felt like it was near a sizzling point.
As soon as she managed to throw off her bed sheets, she lay there with the springs in the mattress stabbing her back, trying to think. However, it seemed easier not to. Instead she settled for humming some sort of lifeless tune in her mind. Hermione's whole head throbbed intensely, and it felt like her eyes were fit to burst. She moaned and vaguely wondered exactly how many mugs she'd had to drink in the bar. She cursed herself and hiccupped so violently that her stomach jarred against her ribs.
'Why me? Why me?' she hissed to no one in particular. It wasn't fair. Ron drank at least five times as much as she and he never seemed to suffer afterwards. In fact, she'd always known him to go back first thing the next morning and get himself reeling drunk before he went off to work. He was up high in the sky before the sun was.
Muttering what sounded like a number of cusses mixed with complaints, she tried to get up. Her head felt as if it was crushed in and she almost yelled aloud. Black splotches did awkward dances in front of her eyes and she slumped back down on the bed. She lay there like a log for almost an hour, uncomfortably squeezed between two unruly lumps in her mattress, and tried to fall asleep. But in that extremely annoying way, she couldn't simply knock herself out of her misery when she wanted to. It was all good and well to when she needed to stay awake, like at meetings and such, but when she actually wanted to sleep...she never could do it. She hated that so much. Why couldn't she get any damned sleep?
Hermione stared around her room, and once or twice she was jolted to awareness when she thought she saw moving shadows. But that is the greatest thing about alcohol; you could be surrounded by little crimson men with forked tails and tongues and care less. Normally she wouldn't have had the nerve to fall asleep on that dark and foreboding night, and yet she was snoring before she had closed her eyes.
It was ironic how that was the one night the whole week she chose to deaden her senses. Hermione couldn't have possibly timed it worse. As she slept with blissful vacancy, something prowled the streets. Shadows flitted in its way and children spontaneously woke up wailing bloody murder. A certain teenage boy, who had broken into the CD outlet, poked his head from the shutters and looked around but saw nothing. Then, without warning, a blast of freezing wind exploded in his face, searing his eyes. Blood slowly trickled from his nose. And, far down the road in a lonely, run down house, Hermione woke up and slapped her hands to her bulging stomach. Quivering, she turned to gape at the mirror on her bedside table, and stifled a shriek.
She wept tears of blood.
(A/N: What do you think? Should I continue or what? Please review and tell me!)
Prologue
Everything was silent, almost as if the whole world had chugged one too many drinks the previous night. Hermione moaned in her sleep and rolled over, smacking her lips lightly. Something trickled out to corner of her mouth, foul smelling and thick as honey, and splashed on the floor. A chill settled over her, and her breath caught halfway up her windpipe. Hermione was throttled by her own cud for a few seconds, until she woke up spluttering. Stiffly she wriggled herself out of her sheets, which were strangling her alive, and tried to wipe off the sweat that was plastered over her. It felt like it was near a sizzling point.
As soon as she managed to throw off her bed sheets, she lay there with the springs in the mattress stabbing her back, trying to think. However, it seemed easier not to. Instead she settled for humming some sort of lifeless tune in her mind. Hermione's whole head throbbed intensely, and it felt like her eyes were fit to burst. She moaned and vaguely wondered exactly how many mugs she'd had to drink in the bar. She cursed herself and hiccupped so violently that her stomach jarred against her ribs.
'Why me? Why me?' she hissed to no one in particular. It wasn't fair. Ron drank at least five times as much as she and he never seemed to suffer afterwards. In fact, she'd always known him to go back first thing the next morning and get himself reeling drunk before he went off to work. He was up high in the sky before the sun was.
Muttering what sounded like a number of cusses mixed with complaints, she tried to get up. Her head felt as if it was crushed in and she almost yelled aloud. Black splotches did awkward dances in front of her eyes and she slumped back down on the bed. She lay there like a log for almost an hour, uncomfortably squeezed between two unruly lumps in her mattress, and tried to fall asleep. But in that extremely annoying way, she couldn't simply knock herself out of her misery when she wanted to. It was all good and well to when she needed to stay awake, like at meetings and such, but when she actually wanted to sleep...she never could do it. She hated that so much. Why couldn't she get any damned sleep?
Hermione stared around her room, and once or twice she was jolted to awareness when she thought she saw moving shadows. But that is the greatest thing about alcohol; you could be surrounded by little crimson men with forked tails and tongues and care less. Normally she wouldn't have had the nerve to fall asleep on that dark and foreboding night, and yet she was snoring before she had closed her eyes.
It was ironic how that was the one night the whole week she chose to deaden her senses. Hermione couldn't have possibly timed it worse. As she slept with blissful vacancy, something prowled the streets. Shadows flitted in its way and children spontaneously woke up wailing bloody murder. A certain teenage boy, who had broken into the CD outlet, poked his head from the shutters and looked around but saw nothing. Then, without warning, a blast of freezing wind exploded in his face, searing his eyes. Blood slowly trickled from his nose. And, far down the road in a lonely, run down house, Hermione woke up and slapped her hands to her bulging stomach. Quivering, she turned to gape at the mirror on her bedside table, and stifled a shriek.
She wept tears of blood.
(A/N: What do you think? Should I continue or what? Please review and tell me!)