Disclaimer: As you all should know... I am not the owner of Harry Potter. If I was I wouldn't be writing a disclaimer every chapter.
Four anxious students stood out side of a dark and slightly ominous classroom. Incomprehensible danger waited for them; and their sanity hung somewhere in the balance.
The was little talking, half out of fear and half out of hate for the fellow student. Only two spoke in dull grunts to each other occasionally.
"Hermione Granger, enter now," called a voice from within the depths of the classroom.
The only girl of the group stuck out her chin proudly, turned the door knob and walked inside.
The classroom was empty, save a few boxes, and was rather dark. There were few windows, and the last lights of day were beginning to fade.
Hermione glanced about the room looking for a sign of movement. Nothing. There wasn't even a breeze coming through the windows. Hermione went to go sit down on one of the boxes when the stone floor began to swirl and turn an odd shade of green.
"What is going on here?" Hermione wondered aloud, unaware of the danger before her.
The stone had now settled into grass and the walls were becoming a line of trees. In the middle of what used to be the room sat a chair. Hermione walked over and sat down. Unlike those before her, she did not panic. After all this was the wizarding world, wasn't it? Things like this had become almost normal for her.
A man appeared before her. He was wearing a blue coat, brilliant yellow boots and a hat with a feather in it.
"Hello," Hermione smiled calmly.
"Hello," The man returned. "I am Tom Bombadil. You are here for a poetry reading," As if on cue, several large tree roots came up around her and tightly strapped her into the chair.
Though she was now slightly uncomfortable, Hermione was still unfazed. "Oh good. I like poetry," She replied.
Tom smiled an odd smile and began.
"Tom Bombadil, that merry fellow,
Has a coat of blue and boots of yellow.
Quite the merry fellow is Tom,
Tom Bombadil, Tom Dilbabom!
Merry dol, merry do,
He's happy as he goes,
Ring a dillo, ring a dong,
'Round the forest singing songs.
Songs of puddles,
Songs of trees,
And of the River-daughter
Goldberry.
Tom Bombadil,
Tom Dilbabom,
His first name's short,
His last name's long.
He love's to sing,
And sings long songs.
He-"
That was it. Hermione's mind could take the mindless prattle no longer. Her sharp, analytical mind could take it no longer. Her brain felt as if it had been shoved into a vice and squeezed until it was on the brink of explosion. Her body could no longer take the stress of functioning and standing the poetry. She could no longer pretend to be calm and cool in the face of certain doom. Hermione let out a scream and, like the rest before her, fainted. She was also floated out on a stretcher.
The evil voice laughed, "Half of them are gone! Only three left! Muahahaha!"