Chapter 03-
The rain covered the already drab school in an aire of sorrow and mourning. All was quiet inside and out for a funeral was in procession. The funeral of a man to which every student in the great school owed their lives to. He had kept them from harms way, every year, for as long as he had lived on the grounds.
Some were respectful, silently standing and paying their regards to the deceased corpse laying in a bedded coffin. Some decided to use the break from school as time to catch up on social matters and anything else to offend the dead man being shown.
Soft Irish music played through three seperate bagpipes, each producing the same tune of Amazing Grace. While each student stood alone in their own prayers and regrets, Hermione stood vacantly. Staring down at the body of her deceased friend; the man who had lifted her spirit so many nights with a cup of tea and a sympathetic talking-to. And though the tears rolled freely down her cheeks, she could not control the anger. The spark of hate and rage that grew with her every day. She was getting closer, she could feel it. She sensed them. The murderer was close at hand. And when the time came, and she knew it would; she would strike. Strike with all of the homicidal idiations inside of her. All of the force and pain that she had felt would double inside of her victim. Leaving them helpless, just as her dear friend had been before his fate.
The music came to a halt, and the calm voice of the headmaster rung clear over the throngs of young witches and wizards.
"I hope that you all will keep our former gamekeeper and friend, Rubeus Hagrid, in your hearts and minds. All students will return to their normally scheduled classes after returning to the castle. Thank you all for attending the procession."
The crowd stirred at the words of departure. Most would walk away, with a small head shake and sigh at the loss. A few would laugh, such as Malfoy and his shroud of followers. Some would ignore the death completely, but the few left over; they would dwell on such a death for a long time to come.
Hermione was one among those few. Standing aside as the rest of the crowd followed suit, re-entering the school, unaware of the turmoil; the agony that such a death had caused. That any death should cause to those close to the deceased.
And in her turmoil Hermione began to question death; if it was really worth it. All the sobs and goodbyes. For deep in her mind she feared that none of the deceased were gone. That they were among them all, breathing down their necks as the wind itself. The thought of constant bombardment made her bones quiver. Then again, she did wonder why she delved so deeply into such things. Shouldn't top scholar be enough to suit her role? The constant stream of questions birraging her mind were incredulous.
Maybe it was the fact that she had grown up too fast. Being exposed to such gruesome things at such young ages. Even her closest friends could not know the secrets of her past. But she wasn't one to cry on another's shoulder. The action seemed hypocritical; and selfish in reason to her.
Looking past her thoughts; her eyes met the dead corpse. Lying in peace, without the struggle of everyday ruffians messing about in the school that lay behind him. Such a good friend, and such a bitter end. Hermioine felt the tears welling up again, and she didn't try to stop them. She let a single tear slide down her cheek and fall onto the dead man's body.
"I'm sorry," she said aloud in a whispered voice. She closed her eyes and wiped away the tears, re-opening them to the sympathetic faces of her two best friends.
"C'mon Hermione," Ron Weasley took her hand in his. Together the three slowly made their way towards the ominous castle before them. Leaving the body of a lost friend to stand alone, with only the gravedigger to remain burdened with it.
----
The moon had dissapeared due to the previous nights relentless waning. The grounds were dark, and Hermione did not spare a second glance towards the depressing landscape, void of any warm-hearted caretaker. Early European Magic lay in front of her; opened to the fiftieth page, waiting to be looked upon. Though, Hermione's gaze lay not on the drudging textbook, but the intriguing flames emitting from the grand fireplace familiar to the Gryffindor common room.
The Common Room was hardly bustling, with it's only inhabitants being Ron, Harry, and Hermione herself. The room was filled with the thick intoxicating haze of sorrow and mourning. It had been nearly a week since the public procession, though the time crept past slowly due to the ongoing hunt for the murderer. The school had not stopped buzzing since the corpse was discovered, and the chatter must have played a number on their energy, due to the fact that all were in bed and it was only eleven o'clock.
A curfue, of course, had been administered to the students, that they should be in their respective houses no later than ten o'clock. Though Hermione tried at her best to ignore the curfue completely.
"Hermione?" her daze was interuppted by our most illustrious red- head. Hermione's head jerked away from the flames and met sight with Ron Weasley. Annoyed by the interuption, Hermione responded quite curtly.
" What?"
" Sorry, I didn't mean to interupt you in your- well, whatever you were doing," the seventeen year old's lanky arms flew up in defense. Hermione rolled her eyes at the gesture. Harry, catching the act, couldn't help but let out a sharp comment.
" What's been bugging you lately, Hermione? You've never been so apathetic,"
" Apathetic?" she scoffed, " Do you even know what that means "savior boy"? I happen to be completely fine. Maybe it's you two who haven't been dwelling enough on Hagrid's death,"
Harry turned beat red and in turn Ron came to his defense.
" For your information, Hermione. Hagrid meant something to us too, and just because we don't intend on crying it up all day long doesn't mean we don't care. Seriously, Hermionie, what has happened to you?" the boy stated, obviously grateful for having a chance to voice his outrage.
" You know what, boys? If you don't want me here, I'm gone." Hermione stood up abruptly and stomped out of the common room in a huff. Though, not towards the dorm room, but out into the dark corridors of the school.
" Hermione! We're not allowed-" Ron's voice was cut off by the portrait hole slamming shut.
She was glad to be rid of them. They had become mere distractions in her ultimate plan, though she never would have suspected such troublesome teen boys would have overlooked such a death with a mere sigh. She stormed down the stairways, further and further down, hoping to reach some kind of desolation to comfort her.
The dungeons. Their bleakness was overwhelming, and it seemed that any man subjected to such an enviroment for an extended period of time might be as irritable as the proffessor in question. In her sixth year at the school, she had uncovered a rather damp yet courteous place to spend time alone, away from the constant attention that came with being the friend of Mr. Harry Potter. The small dungeon room's usage had become much more regular after the death of her friend, and Hermione immediatley made her way down the long intricate dungeon hallways towards the room in consideration.
Shutting the door tightly behind her, making sure that no sound emitted from it's closure, she reached her hand to the right of the handle, her fingers grazing a rough handled object. She pulled a box of matches from her cloak and lit the torch; the room immediatley lighting up. She walked across the room and pulled the loose brick from the musty floor, and underneath the protruding brick was a leatherbound journal; one that Hermione had found soothing counsel in for the past few weeks. The journal was not hers. She had stumbled upon it in the first days that her secret room had been discovered. She had read the journal at least thirty times since then, and knew it front to back. It was almost a miracle to her, stumbling upon such literary genius, and to think the words and ideas presented in the journal had come from a former student of Hogwarts? It seemed odd to imagine another student of mediocre intelligence strolling the vast halls of the ancient school.
Her fingers caressed the intricate symbol that had been etched into the front cover. The ink was an emerald green, most likely representing Slytherin, but Hermione did not mind the forebearer's housing accomodations; his mind was deep with compassion and secrets. If only she could find the former owner, then maybe some of her most intriguing questions would be answered. She flipped the cover open, there was no name of course, only a spec of ink that might have been the debated start of the former owner's initials; but Hermione payed no mind to it. She scanned the pages, finally coming to a halt where she had last left off.
The handwriting unbelievably neat and beautiful, the forebearer must have been an artist of some sort. The ink created a harmony with the page as much as the crafted words did. She began to concentrate on the place at which she had last left.
'December the Twenty-Second,
The halls are brimming with cheer and joy yet again, though I know why it is they celebrate so. It 'tis for their own selfish reason, they wish to have gifts, gifts of the heart and of the physical realm. I see it every year, the gigantic fir appears in the dining hall, and all becomes a hectic mess of glory and tribute. It becomes almost sickening to watch. The women become lusty in their appeal, and though it can be somewhat enjoyable to witness, it is all an inner-selfishness, not a love.
My wish would be to see the ends of a year in which no eyes gleam with that selfish satisfaction, when all is silent and blissfully at peace. Though peace is a word not truthfully heard to human ears, and peace can only be achieved through gratification of the human soul, through love of one another; not lust, not greed. Pure unadolterated love. Until that time I will continue to believe that human and wizard-kind has long-ago abandoned hope, and that the only method to reforming human ways, is to terminate the one's in the way; the ones not so easily changed. They are our only enemies.'
Hermione stared at the words in sadness and sympathy. She understood everything that he was trying to explain. Her feelings had been in the same degree, especially for the past month. Her enemy was the murderer of such an innocent and loving man. Hagrid was one of the only people who's gaze was filled with a clean kind of love, not a corrupted one; and she admired this greatly. Turning to the very last page of the journal, Hermione couldn't help but notice something for the very first time. To the immediate right of the date the year, and at the sight of the numbers, 1998, her eyes widened in surprise. The entries had stopped immediatley after Hermione had first discovered the journal. The would have to mean that the student was still at Hogwarts, and had still been coming to the room until Hermioine had found it. That meant it could be any one student in Hogwarts, better yet, in Slytherin House. Hermione shuddered to think that one of the half-wit brains of Slytherin house could have developed such an accomplishment.
Thoughts of her new development were cut short, though when the sound of footsteps coallesced off of the dungeon walls, and shallow voices made their way down the hall. Hermione quickly stuffed the journal back under the brick and tip-toed towards the door, pressing an ear up against the crack beneath it. The late-night visitors stopped short, though, just outside of the room, and there voices were just clear enough to discern through the crack of the door. Hermione cocked her head to observe the feet of the visitors, one set being a normal size and the other the rare size of an elephants enormous hooves. The most unique and discerning part of their feet were the shoes; brown Oxford's with the distinct symbol of Slytherin house on the toe.
"I observed him again today, not much of a change since before. He didn't notice me, so I'm guessin' he didn't suspect nothin' " These words belonged to a student with a rough tenor voice; most likely the large- footed man. The reply sent a chill down her spine, for she knew it well.
"Be careful, we don't want to spoil our new circumstances. We have come too far my friend," the voice was cold as steel and lined with the spite of frost; it belonged to none other than Draco Malfoy. What was he doing in the dungeons after curfue? And even more importantly, who were they reffering to, and what "circumstances" was he talking about? She listened closely to their voices, being sure not to blow her cover. There was a lengthy pause until the tenor voice spoke again.
"What am I to do now?" he asked. Hermione caught a drift of fear from the deep voice, though he seemed extremely undermatched in comparison to Draco; the spindly character with tacked on muscles he was. Malfoy seemed to take this into consideration.
"Do not do anything," he resolved the question "I would very much like to handle this situation on my own. Mr.Potter has struck a nerve of mine since the very first day I laid eyes on him. I will handle this Grimly,"
Hermione almost blew her cover with the shock that came from Harry's name being mentioned. It all seemed to fall into place at that moment, Hagrid's death, the "circumstance", Draco's prescence in the greenhouse, though one thing was left completely unclear; what could he possibly be up to? Her rage was about spent, and she was all to fond of unleashing right then. A small whimper escaped her breath, and her eyes filled with terror, for Malfoy had shushed his partner, and his hand clasped tightly around the doorknob to her room.
Hermione slid her arm down to her side, grasping her wand by it's hilt, and the door to the dungeon room creaked warily on it's hinges. She rolled out of the doorway and into the nearby corner, where in a defensive position, she aimed her wand at the intruder.
"Crucio!"
The rain covered the already drab school in an aire of sorrow and mourning. All was quiet inside and out for a funeral was in procession. The funeral of a man to which every student in the great school owed their lives to. He had kept them from harms way, every year, for as long as he had lived on the grounds.
Some were respectful, silently standing and paying their regards to the deceased corpse laying in a bedded coffin. Some decided to use the break from school as time to catch up on social matters and anything else to offend the dead man being shown.
Soft Irish music played through three seperate bagpipes, each producing the same tune of Amazing Grace. While each student stood alone in their own prayers and regrets, Hermione stood vacantly. Staring down at the body of her deceased friend; the man who had lifted her spirit so many nights with a cup of tea and a sympathetic talking-to. And though the tears rolled freely down her cheeks, she could not control the anger. The spark of hate and rage that grew with her every day. She was getting closer, she could feel it. She sensed them. The murderer was close at hand. And when the time came, and she knew it would; she would strike. Strike with all of the homicidal idiations inside of her. All of the force and pain that she had felt would double inside of her victim. Leaving them helpless, just as her dear friend had been before his fate.
The music came to a halt, and the calm voice of the headmaster rung clear over the throngs of young witches and wizards.
"I hope that you all will keep our former gamekeeper and friend, Rubeus Hagrid, in your hearts and minds. All students will return to their normally scheduled classes after returning to the castle. Thank you all for attending the procession."
The crowd stirred at the words of departure. Most would walk away, with a small head shake and sigh at the loss. A few would laugh, such as Malfoy and his shroud of followers. Some would ignore the death completely, but the few left over; they would dwell on such a death for a long time to come.
Hermione was one among those few. Standing aside as the rest of the crowd followed suit, re-entering the school, unaware of the turmoil; the agony that such a death had caused. That any death should cause to those close to the deceased.
And in her turmoil Hermione began to question death; if it was really worth it. All the sobs and goodbyes. For deep in her mind she feared that none of the deceased were gone. That they were among them all, breathing down their necks as the wind itself. The thought of constant bombardment made her bones quiver. Then again, she did wonder why she delved so deeply into such things. Shouldn't top scholar be enough to suit her role? The constant stream of questions birraging her mind were incredulous.
Maybe it was the fact that she had grown up too fast. Being exposed to such gruesome things at such young ages. Even her closest friends could not know the secrets of her past. But she wasn't one to cry on another's shoulder. The action seemed hypocritical; and selfish in reason to her.
Looking past her thoughts; her eyes met the dead corpse. Lying in peace, without the struggle of everyday ruffians messing about in the school that lay behind him. Such a good friend, and such a bitter end. Hermioine felt the tears welling up again, and she didn't try to stop them. She let a single tear slide down her cheek and fall onto the dead man's body.
"I'm sorry," she said aloud in a whispered voice. She closed her eyes and wiped away the tears, re-opening them to the sympathetic faces of her two best friends.
"C'mon Hermione," Ron Weasley took her hand in his. Together the three slowly made their way towards the ominous castle before them. Leaving the body of a lost friend to stand alone, with only the gravedigger to remain burdened with it.
----
The moon had dissapeared due to the previous nights relentless waning. The grounds were dark, and Hermione did not spare a second glance towards the depressing landscape, void of any warm-hearted caretaker. Early European Magic lay in front of her; opened to the fiftieth page, waiting to be looked upon. Though, Hermione's gaze lay not on the drudging textbook, but the intriguing flames emitting from the grand fireplace familiar to the Gryffindor common room.
The Common Room was hardly bustling, with it's only inhabitants being Ron, Harry, and Hermione herself. The room was filled with the thick intoxicating haze of sorrow and mourning. It had been nearly a week since the public procession, though the time crept past slowly due to the ongoing hunt for the murderer. The school had not stopped buzzing since the corpse was discovered, and the chatter must have played a number on their energy, due to the fact that all were in bed and it was only eleven o'clock.
A curfue, of course, had been administered to the students, that they should be in their respective houses no later than ten o'clock. Though Hermione tried at her best to ignore the curfue completely.
"Hermione?" her daze was interuppted by our most illustrious red- head. Hermione's head jerked away from the flames and met sight with Ron Weasley. Annoyed by the interuption, Hermione responded quite curtly.
" What?"
" Sorry, I didn't mean to interupt you in your- well, whatever you were doing," the seventeen year old's lanky arms flew up in defense. Hermione rolled her eyes at the gesture. Harry, catching the act, couldn't help but let out a sharp comment.
" What's been bugging you lately, Hermione? You've never been so apathetic,"
" Apathetic?" she scoffed, " Do you even know what that means "savior boy"? I happen to be completely fine. Maybe it's you two who haven't been dwelling enough on Hagrid's death,"
Harry turned beat red and in turn Ron came to his defense.
" For your information, Hermione. Hagrid meant something to us too, and just because we don't intend on crying it up all day long doesn't mean we don't care. Seriously, Hermionie, what has happened to you?" the boy stated, obviously grateful for having a chance to voice his outrage.
" You know what, boys? If you don't want me here, I'm gone." Hermione stood up abruptly and stomped out of the common room in a huff. Though, not towards the dorm room, but out into the dark corridors of the school.
" Hermione! We're not allowed-" Ron's voice was cut off by the portrait hole slamming shut.
She was glad to be rid of them. They had become mere distractions in her ultimate plan, though she never would have suspected such troublesome teen boys would have overlooked such a death with a mere sigh. She stormed down the stairways, further and further down, hoping to reach some kind of desolation to comfort her.
The dungeons. Their bleakness was overwhelming, and it seemed that any man subjected to such an enviroment for an extended period of time might be as irritable as the proffessor in question. In her sixth year at the school, she had uncovered a rather damp yet courteous place to spend time alone, away from the constant attention that came with being the friend of Mr. Harry Potter. The small dungeon room's usage had become much more regular after the death of her friend, and Hermione immediatley made her way down the long intricate dungeon hallways towards the room in consideration.
Shutting the door tightly behind her, making sure that no sound emitted from it's closure, she reached her hand to the right of the handle, her fingers grazing a rough handled object. She pulled a box of matches from her cloak and lit the torch; the room immediatley lighting up. She walked across the room and pulled the loose brick from the musty floor, and underneath the protruding brick was a leatherbound journal; one that Hermione had found soothing counsel in for the past few weeks. The journal was not hers. She had stumbled upon it in the first days that her secret room had been discovered. She had read the journal at least thirty times since then, and knew it front to back. It was almost a miracle to her, stumbling upon such literary genius, and to think the words and ideas presented in the journal had come from a former student of Hogwarts? It seemed odd to imagine another student of mediocre intelligence strolling the vast halls of the ancient school.
Her fingers caressed the intricate symbol that had been etched into the front cover. The ink was an emerald green, most likely representing Slytherin, but Hermione did not mind the forebearer's housing accomodations; his mind was deep with compassion and secrets. If only she could find the former owner, then maybe some of her most intriguing questions would be answered. She flipped the cover open, there was no name of course, only a spec of ink that might have been the debated start of the former owner's initials; but Hermione payed no mind to it. She scanned the pages, finally coming to a halt where she had last left off.
The handwriting unbelievably neat and beautiful, the forebearer must have been an artist of some sort. The ink created a harmony with the page as much as the crafted words did. She began to concentrate on the place at which she had last left.
'December the Twenty-Second,
The halls are brimming with cheer and joy yet again, though I know why it is they celebrate so. It 'tis for their own selfish reason, they wish to have gifts, gifts of the heart and of the physical realm. I see it every year, the gigantic fir appears in the dining hall, and all becomes a hectic mess of glory and tribute. It becomes almost sickening to watch. The women become lusty in their appeal, and though it can be somewhat enjoyable to witness, it is all an inner-selfishness, not a love.
My wish would be to see the ends of a year in which no eyes gleam with that selfish satisfaction, when all is silent and blissfully at peace. Though peace is a word not truthfully heard to human ears, and peace can only be achieved through gratification of the human soul, through love of one another; not lust, not greed. Pure unadolterated love. Until that time I will continue to believe that human and wizard-kind has long-ago abandoned hope, and that the only method to reforming human ways, is to terminate the one's in the way; the ones not so easily changed. They are our only enemies.'
Hermione stared at the words in sadness and sympathy. She understood everything that he was trying to explain. Her feelings had been in the same degree, especially for the past month. Her enemy was the murderer of such an innocent and loving man. Hagrid was one of the only people who's gaze was filled with a clean kind of love, not a corrupted one; and she admired this greatly. Turning to the very last page of the journal, Hermione couldn't help but notice something for the very first time. To the immediate right of the date the year, and at the sight of the numbers, 1998, her eyes widened in surprise. The entries had stopped immediatley after Hermione had first discovered the journal. The would have to mean that the student was still at Hogwarts, and had still been coming to the room until Hermioine had found it. That meant it could be any one student in Hogwarts, better yet, in Slytherin House. Hermione shuddered to think that one of the half-wit brains of Slytherin house could have developed such an accomplishment.
Thoughts of her new development were cut short, though when the sound of footsteps coallesced off of the dungeon walls, and shallow voices made their way down the hall. Hermione quickly stuffed the journal back under the brick and tip-toed towards the door, pressing an ear up against the crack beneath it. The late-night visitors stopped short, though, just outside of the room, and there voices were just clear enough to discern through the crack of the door. Hermione cocked her head to observe the feet of the visitors, one set being a normal size and the other the rare size of an elephants enormous hooves. The most unique and discerning part of their feet were the shoes; brown Oxford's with the distinct symbol of Slytherin house on the toe.
"I observed him again today, not much of a change since before. He didn't notice me, so I'm guessin' he didn't suspect nothin' " These words belonged to a student with a rough tenor voice; most likely the large- footed man. The reply sent a chill down her spine, for she knew it well.
"Be careful, we don't want to spoil our new circumstances. We have come too far my friend," the voice was cold as steel and lined with the spite of frost; it belonged to none other than Draco Malfoy. What was he doing in the dungeons after curfue? And even more importantly, who were they reffering to, and what "circumstances" was he talking about? She listened closely to their voices, being sure not to blow her cover. There was a lengthy pause until the tenor voice spoke again.
"What am I to do now?" he asked. Hermione caught a drift of fear from the deep voice, though he seemed extremely undermatched in comparison to Draco; the spindly character with tacked on muscles he was. Malfoy seemed to take this into consideration.
"Do not do anything," he resolved the question "I would very much like to handle this situation on my own. Mr.Potter has struck a nerve of mine since the very first day I laid eyes on him. I will handle this Grimly,"
Hermione almost blew her cover with the shock that came from Harry's name being mentioned. It all seemed to fall into place at that moment, Hagrid's death, the "circumstance", Draco's prescence in the greenhouse, though one thing was left completely unclear; what could he possibly be up to? Her rage was about spent, and she was all to fond of unleashing right then. A small whimper escaped her breath, and her eyes filled with terror, for Malfoy had shushed his partner, and his hand clasped tightly around the doorknob to her room.
Hermione slid her arm down to her side, grasping her wand by it's hilt, and the door to the dungeon room creaked warily on it's hinges. She rolled out of the doorway and into the nearby corner, where in a defensive position, she aimed her wand at the intruder.
"Crucio!"