Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter it's all J/K Rowling's

A/N: Umm, after reading my own last two chapters I want to apologize. My writing has degraded into a form known as cryptic caveman; I guess that's what happens when you've been deprived from books. Anyway, hopefully you'll be able to bear with me as I try to scamper my way out of that little pit. Also my plot hedgehog has rammed into a wall, and has no clue where to go. He's gonna try to nibble his way through, but at the moment he's been successfully stumped. This story is going in a completely different direction then from what I expected. Hell, this was gonna be a Herm/Draco story and the next thing I know I'm sticking Snape in there, so all my previous ideas have kinda gone down the drain, so I'm gonna do my best to manage a reasonable story outta what I've started. I think that's about all I'm gonna ramble about. Enjoy!

An Unexpected Discovery

The Great Hall was crowded as always at lunchtime. The four large tables held a feast not even a king could dream of, every sort of salad, poultry, juices, everything imaginable. The blue sky sparkled overhead and the room itself practically glowed. Hermione oblivious to everything downed her pumpkin juice and sprang up from the Gryffindor table. Harry caught her sleeve before she could zoom off towards the door, casting a withering glance at him she stated, "what?"

"Where do you think your going to? Class doesn't start for another half hour." Harry's glasses slowly slid down the bridge of his nose making him look like Mcgonnagle. Laughing Hermione pushed them back up " I was heading to the library, Harry. I've got something I want to look up, is that a good enough excuse?" Harry smiled, "Yea, I should have figured."

Hermione walked through the large awning of the doorway to the Library. She loved this place it was her haven. The soft brown of the bookshelves, the aged spines lined in rows, continuous sea of colour and the high chandelier that was suspended from the domed ceiling casting a comfortable yellow light. She made her way to her favorite table. It was at the far back partially hidden by bookshelves and sat right in the corner. The dark brown manzinita wood welcomed her, the pale light glimmering off the polished surface and she gratefully sank into the cushioned chair. She'd missed this library during the summer, in a sense it was kind of pathetic, but she really didn't care.

This was like her second home; she was more at ease here surrounded by ageless tomes than in any party. Books don't judge, they don't care what you look like or what people think of you; no they had no care for that. They accepted you whole and without question, accepted your curiosity and fed it, they were her family.

Pulling a random book from a shelf she turned abruptly, truly there was no reason for her to be here. She just wanted to assure herself that her haven was still accessible to her, no matter how incredulous it sounded. Turning she bumped into her chair, clutching the book in protective grasp, Hermione tried to stop her fall. The ground rushed at her, the tan carpet came into stark relief and with graceful "oomph" she smashed her hand on the bottom of the bookshelf.

"Holy fuck!" She hissed, the book lying forgotten near the table. Hermione cradled her hand spiting colorful verses towards the bookshelf. Glaring at the offending object that was the cause of her distinct thrumming in her hand, she gasped. Inching closer she leaned down to survey the bookshelf closer, there was a distinct outline of a drawer. What the hell? Since when did they build drawers in bookshelves? She'd been in this situation before, sitting cursing at this same bookshelf before that is, and she'd never noticed any drawer outline. This was something new or else whatever spell holding it invisible had been released. Her pulsing hand still was pressed to her breast while her other traced the outline of the distinct rectangular shape. Hermione tried to fit her fingers into the narrow holes; she thanked her mother for forcing her to grow out her nails. Clawing at the small opening, her nails got a grip on the woods grain and she painfully began to pull out the drawer. She bit her lip as she felt her nails bending outward, "C'mon just a bit, just this little bit."

The drawer fell out of its niche with an audible pop, and Hermione glowered at it. She'd been doing that a lot, stowing away that observation in her little 'To Correct' section. Hermione continued to glower, a definite frown set on her features. "Bloody Hell! There's nothing in it!" and sadly enough she was right as usual. The box was empty, only a thick layer of dust covered the bottom. There was no way someone would make a secret drawer to store dust, casting the drawer to the side she peered into the hole at the side of the bookshelf. Dark. Musty. Dusty. Determined to find something, Hermione stuck her hand probing the darkness for an object. Her fingers skimmed through the dust leaving swerving trails, Hermione scrunched her nose in distaste as the air filled with dust. "Yes!" she practically squealed with delight, her hand closed over the solid object.

It was a book. The cover was thick with more dust, the layers almost an inch and some thick. Clearing it with a rub of her sleeve, Hermione inspected the tome. It was large, bound in leather dyed a dark navy blue, cracks littered the cover like rivers and in faint, silver, flowing writing "Eternally Forsaken". Hermione traced the curving letters; slipping her hand under the cover Hermione pried the tome open.

Dry, brittle parchment met her curious eyes, and in the middle with the same flowing hand the title repeated itself. Gently turning the page, she was amazed the ink had not faded, then again it was probably enchanted, but why wouldn't' they want to enchant the book from wear as well? Shrugging her eager eyes flowed over the page:
I have lost all hope for this condemned race. We are naught but sinners, cruel destroyers of a helpless planet, wrecking havoc upon our own kind, merciless and without pity. Sooner or later, just like the world's first day the planet will be cleansed, history has taught us nothing. None understand their human rights, they refuse to be what they've come here for, letting themselves be swayed by others, thoughts, opinions. None of them with a will, all believing whatever they see, not even a glance to check for a two-way glass. I am of no exception, I have added my own unforgivable deeds to the ever-increasing list, but oh how do I repent. My sorrow does nothing to help those I've crushed, strangled mercilessly dozens by killing one. My dreams are haunted by the memories, each a vivid picture of my inhumanity. Yet despite this all I cannot leave my sinful ways, I strive to cleanse this world of its impurities, even if it means I must suffer and many those around me. I will continue no matter the torture or the anguished cries, the race must be cleansed.

Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion, what was this? The writer was obviously a very disturbed person, but what were his motives. If there was anything Hermione loved anything more than books it was puzzles, and this definitely fit that category. Settling herself onto a chair she lost herself in the current of cursive words.

Fury spirals in the dark Leaping flames of anger spark; Vengeance takes a wrathful hold, Beware the beast within its fold.

I am but a mortal fool. Contradicting myself in each belief, I fight against what I am, what flows through my blood if even it was generations past it is still a part of me. I fight for man who does the same. We are all one; each with a unique ability and each need each other to continue. Cleanse? Cleanse of what? To purify this land would be for humans to be vanquished. That I cannot strive for, I am too cowardly to take my own life. Even through ages past our history is tainted, a bloody line drawn through time.
Turning the page Hermione bit down on her lip, what was this? The words were viscous and written by a desperate hand.

The King had a son. One prince that was nothing of his dream boy, but he had another that none knew of. He had created this boy of clay, and brought the most powerful sorcerer to blow life within the hollow frame. The boy looked just like a human, acted just as one, but anything he touched turned to grease. Standing on his balcony the King decided to see if the world would accept him as they're own, and a plan formed in mind.

The boy was kept in a giant mansion with two hundred greyhounds, the maids arrived once a year to clean and feed the dogs. His complexion was fair, golden hair and toned skin, the personality golden and once brought to the light the women flocked at him like vultures for the kill. The King decided to marry him to a princess from a bordering land.

This princess was of such beauty that people said in truth she was so ugly that it blinded. Every morning a witch would come blindfolded and cast the spell on her and then killed so as not to take the risk of idle talk, but this was all only gossip.

The two were married in a joyful celebration, their love for each other true and pure. They were the perfect match, each as beautiful as another and kind to the nation.

As the moon bathed the bed in light the king smiled. His creation was accepted by the living, but would the dead take him as living? That thought haunted the king. What if his creation had flawed? Well, he'd just have to see. With these parting thoughts the king was lulled into content slumber by the moons caresses.

The Princess and the Prince had decided to go for a drive. The weather was warm and inviting and so their carriage bounced happily along the pebbled road. Reaching a ruined roman amphitheater the princess was eager to have a picnic there. They both climbed into the heart of the amphitheater, the darkness thick and chilling.

The prince built a fire and as the leaping flames lighted the rows of seats he walked amidst the aisles reading the names engraved upon their backs. Grabbing his arm the princess hissed, "No! You call the dead from their rest, come back to the fire." They sat in silence, the blood sausage cooking in the coals, the skin turning black. "You must never cut yourself when in presence of the dead. The smell of blood turns them ravenous and they'll tear you apart." The princess voice was, but a whisper except her voice echoed with startling clarity throughout the amphitheater.

As the princess took the knife to cut their sausage despite her own words of caution she pricked her finger on the tip. C rimson tainted white and with a sharp gasp her eyes widened in fear. The dead flew at her, their icy fingers tearing flesh like cloth. Strips of flesh scattered in all directions as her scream lifted into the air and echoed a thousand times over, there was no escape. Her blood ran rivers from the stage icebergs of skin drifting by its currents. As quick as it had begun, it was over.

The prince was shocked. Tears spilled unheeded as he surveyed his wife's remains, all bloody pools. Sobbing he lay curled on the stage, sleep finally overtaking his exhausted body.

The prince made his way out of the amphitheater. To his surprise there was his wife. Standing with her back to him. The wind playing with her hair, whipping it into circles as it tugged playfully at her dress. The prince ran to her, his joyful exclamation lost to the wind. " My love!" his outstretched hand quivered with anticipation. Turning to him she smiled, her eyes sparkling with light. His hand shook and he gently brought his finger to trace her jaw. The index finger skimmed the skin, and as his finger glided a red streak was trailed along her jaw. Her skin was as a knife, slicing through his finger.

The smile turned viscous, teeth bared. Eyes holding a carnal hunger as she lunged.

"NO, My love!" His cries diminished to a silent agony as the others came for their share. His blood joined with hers, their rivers creating a crimson ocean that ran among the aisles. A red carpet had once again appeared within the theater, let the shows begin.

The King smiled; yes his son was perfect, even the dead had thought him human. Glancing at the setting sun his smile broadened, the perfect end to a perfect day and son.

Hermione stared at the page. This was twisted! What kind of logic was this, it was sick and intriguing. She'd never read of these things before, this had a medieval ring to it. Would it explain itself farther on?

A/N: Okay, umm, sorry for taking so long to update. Please review, I want to thank BlueBliss, Glasshouse19, Ponine, Silinna & ...... Thanks for the reviews! They mean a lot!

Luvs,

Cathy