What a bore the world was becoming.
Since human time began, he had seen so many iterations of the same. The same people, making the same deals, with the same gods. Eternal prayer for a mere chance of making it through the pearly gates. Bloody sacrifices for a dash of recognition, a sprinkling of rain, a smattering of…anything from their deities.
It was fun at first, being the snake in the grass. The tempter. The villain. He would stalk his victims with care, laying down the path to their damnation even as they walked it. He'd be meticulous, he'd be eager, and they would be such fun to trap in their own greed.
He'd still had a handsome tally of souls back in the day, but the numbers started to get obscene in the 20th century. That was around when the deals he made became less fun. Not only because of how many he was making (the schedule was a nightmare), but because people seemed to become much less ambitious. Nobody wanted to be a king- a real king, all swords, and lines of descent, and fifty concubines- anymore. Nobody wanted bloodshed or woe. People wished for much less in exchange for their souls. Although, the quality of the souls did seem to be depleting as the years went on, a reasonable exchange rate perhaps.
Nevertheless, he was getting bored, there was nothing to chase, nobody worth convincing. He moved through the world, collecting what he was due, but the taste was beginning to wither on his tongue.
He needed something fresh.
He needed…
Hermione screamed into her pillow. She wished she had the strength to bury her head in the fabric forever, to let her breath rebound off the pillowcase and catch, over and over until she passed out. The second she started to struggle, however, she came up for air, angry now at her own weakness.
She didn't understand.
It didn't make any sense.
Hermione Granger was the brightest student of her age.
It should never have been under any speculation that she would get into Oxford. And yet her formal letter of rejection lay torn to shreds on her bedroom floor. Her parents had knocked for a while, concerned by the utter lack of noise when there should have been cries of joy. Her door had remained locked. There had been no doubt in their minds that she would get in. They had tried to school themselves on all possibilities, tried to manage their daughter's expectations as well as their own, but with her being as gifted as she was…
The blow had been brutal. For everyone. But Hermione had taken the full force of it. She felt as if all the air had been wrung out of her. Deflated, but at the same time full of a rage that had no place outside of her. It seemed only to fester within, eating her from the inside until she wanted to scream and vomit and explode all at once.
She would do anything to make it stop. She would do anything to get what she had worked for, what she deserved.
Religion had never been something she had put much thought into. Her parents weren't religious, and none of her schools had taught her more than the standard R.E fare. In that moment, however, Hermione was willing to do anything, and so she prayed.
What a sweet little thing, he had thought.
She sat on her bedroom floor, hands clasped together so tight the skin around her knuckles was paper white. She had her eyes clamped shut, and her frame bore so much tension he was certain a mere breeze could make her snap. Faint trails on her cheeks: tears, and plenty of them. Hair run amok, but something about it made him question whether that was simply its natural state.
From the state of her bedroom, he assumed she must be a terrible bore. Everything was organised, all right angles and colour coordination. The bed made, the carpet hoovered, ornaments from her holidays lined up on the windowsill, accolades and certificates all pinned on a board above her desk. The only thing at odds with the orderly nature of the room a small pile of torn up paper on the floor. Without disturbing the girl, he leant down to pick up a stray scrap. A rejection letter, from Oxford.
He scoffed, and the girl's eyes tore open.
They were a deep, dark brown. And they were glistening with fear.
Hermione scrambled back on all fours, hitting her elbows against the bed in her hurry. He could see in her eyes that she wanted to scream, to shout, to run, run, run until her legs couldn't take her any further.
But she couldn't. They never could. He was too much for them to react to. Instead, she cowered, chest quaking like a rabbit's.
The creature before her was something wrong, she knew. She could see by the way the world had dimmed around it. It had the vague shape of a man, but a man made of all the worst things. Looking at it, at him, she felt for the first time in her life that she was facing up to death. This is what the reaper would look like, she thought, a darkness deeper and more dangerous than she had ever known, with an empty glimmer in its eyes.
In its and it held a scrap of her rejection letter. Just as quickly as she had noticed, the creature flicked its wrist and the paper burst into flame. Then it took a step forward. She flinched at the sudden motion, but it didn't stop. Its shadowy form grew in her vision until it occupied ever her peripheries. It stared deep into her eyes before drawing away.
"Y-y-you…" Hermione gulped, trying to push past the sudden dryness of her throat. "You're here to kill me."
The creature seemed to tilt its head. When it spoke, she was surprised by how human its voice sounded.
"To kill you?" He hummed as if considering the idea. "No. I'm not here to kill you."
The figure shifted, and the darkness receded. Its blurred edges sharpened, lightened. Its anomalous extremities drew in to craft arms and legs, a black suit, a tie. Then its features began to emerge: human features. Beautiful features.
"What's you name?" He asked.
"Hermione. Hermione Granger."
"Well, Hermione. Let me make myself clear. I am not here to kill you. I am here to save you.