A/N: This is a story that is based on Tuck Everlasting. Has 3 chapters.
A Life Everlasting Chapter 1
Three Stone Gap, 1900
Hermione Granger sat in the window seat of her second floor bedroom as her parents greeted the Weasleys downstairs. Any moment, her mother would come up to retrieve her—it was far too forward and eager to wait for Mister Ronald Weasley downstairs with the others. She held a book open in her lap—one of the nonsensical ones her mother always said would rot her brain.. Hermione had tried to explain repeatedly how important and fulfilling it was to be well-read, but Mother had argued that brains would never help her find a suitor.
Father had been the one to meet Arthur Weasley whilst developing a new stretch of railways. He'd mentioned he had a son of about her age, looking for a potential bride. She watched as the family of auburn haired, kindly looking folks shuffled onto her front porch, her chin in her hand, a melancholy feeling in her heart.
Hermione had always fancied that she would marry for love, just like in one of William Shakespeare's sonnets. A deep, undying passion that couldn't be matched in anyone but her one true love. Perhaps her mother had a point—her reading was giving her delusions of grandeur about how the world should work. Never mind that a girl of her status was to be prim and proper at all times, ever the gentle woman, always seen and never heard.
A soft knock sounded at her door and her mother stepped in to finish her tying. "He's quite dashing, that Ronald Weasley," he mother whispered conspiratorially as Hermione stood and grabbed the bedpost.
Her mother had the ability to tie the laces of her corset much tighter than their housemaid, Winnie, giving her another couple of gracious inches trimmed from her waist. Never mind that Hermione could scarcely breathe by the time she was done. "I want you to be on your best behavior, young lady. The Weasley family is a good match and with Ronald, you will never want for a thing in your life."
Hermione clamped her jaw shut, lest she say something ugly and get Mother's swift backhand on her mouth. She had no desire to meet these people, no desire to run off and marry some man for his riches and security. No. She wanted romance and acclamations of love and devotion on bended knee.
Her mother helped pull her gown on, a simple white lace with a ruffled bustle starting at the small of her back, the neck a high, modest collar. The gown that would secure a potential mate. She fought the urge to roll her eyes and act like an impudent child.
She pulled the sleeves of the dress between her fingers creating a delicate, open glove effect. Her mother tutted over her hair, a stray curl falling from the pile atop her head. Hermione's hair was the unruliest of any dame she'd met, a constant source of irritation to her mother. Hermione quite liked it—she thought it gave her character.
When her mother finally approved of her appearance, she turned her toward the door. "You are to walk down, three paces behind me. Give him a polite smile, but do not be too forward. Speak only when spoken to. And allow yourself to be led by him. Is this clear?" her mother asked, her voice harsh.
"Crystal, Mother. Really," Hermione drawled lazily and her mother shot her a glare over her shoulder.
Her mother walked forward a ways and then Hermione fell in behind her, just as instructed. The corset was constricting and didn't allow for slouching and her back ached with the force of being held pin straight. She nearly fainted at the thought that she'd be able to strip herself of the offending garment in a few short hours.
When she reached the landing of the wood staircase, the long red Persian runner that stretched across the center became her focal point. There, at the base of the stairs, was a handsome redheaded man of about eighteen, pacing with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Her future husband, if she behaved herself. He looked up as the heels of her boots made a soft clicking noise on the oak flooring.
She saw him swallow hard and he held out a hand toward her. Hermione took as deep a breath as her bindings would allow and started down the stairs, hoping she looked sophisticated and submissive enough to marry. Halfway down the stairs, her boot caught the side of the rug and she went toppling head first down the remaining five steps.
"Good Lord!" Ronald said, catching her in arms that were strong and firm.
Their parents rushed to them and Hermione quickly separated herself from him, lest he think her fall was a ploy to be forward. He lifted one corner of his mouth as his parents frowned and hers looked on in abject horror. "It's not every day a beautiful woman falls into my arms, Miss Granger."
She could feel her cheeks stinging with a flush, her ribs smarting after the boning in her corset had poked into her ribcage. "I do apologize, Mister Weasley. I seemed to have lost my footing."
Her father, ever the one to easily diffuse a situation, cleared his throat. "How about we retire to the parlor? I'm sure my Hermione and Ronald have much acquainting to do."
Hermione fought the urge to groan and instead put on a small smile, waiting for the men to walk ahead of them. Missus Weasley followed them and her mother turned ahead of her after shooting her another warning look. She shrugged and raised her chin in defiance behind Missus Granger's back.
As the others took their seats around the parlor and Winnie served tea, Hermione went to the window and stared wistfully out into the sunny day. She had no desire to make small talk or to partake in false niceties. Only the clearing of her mother's throat made her turn and join them.
She sat opposite Ronald, on the edge of her chair. She sipped her tea, her littlest finger out in the way her mother had insisted upon, the saucer balanced delicately in her other palm as she took imperceptible sips from the porcelain cup.
Ronald looked in her direction and smiled politely. "Tell me, Miss Granger, what do you enjoy doing?"
Hermione fought once more to roll her eyes. Instead she averted her eyes and gave the slightest smile. "I enjoy playing the piano quite a bit."
This was a lie, of course. She hated that infernal instrument and only played because her mother forced her to take on a talent that didn't involve ink smears across her fingertips. "Men don't care for women who can outsmart them," her mother had said.
"Oh, what a delight! Care to show me?" Ronald asked politely, gesturing toward the grand piano in the corner.
Hermione plastered another painfully false smile on her face. "Of course. As you wish," she replied and she set her tea down on the tray beside her and waited until the men had stood before she did so.
She sat on the hard bench—her mother had refused to allow her a cushion because "comfort was for the weak at heart"—and shuffled the sheet music before her until she found something suitable to play. Her fingers began to tinkle over the keys and the others in the room seemed to melt. "Oh, how beautiful!" Missus Weasley stated, smiling widely at her son.
Ronald watched with feigned interest and when she finished, he politely clapped his hands. "How talented you are, Miss Granger!"
She stood and made a slight bend of the knee in curtsey before they returned to their prior seating. The air in the room as her father asked Ronald questions was near unbearable. It was stiflingly hot outside and the open windows of the parlor offered no reprieve.
Hermione began to feel as though the room was starting to close in, the weight of inane conversation and the thick air looming over her, wrapping around her like a thick quilt. Her corset was suddenly laced too tightly, the room was too noisy, the air too sticky. She took a few steadying breaths and tried to make the room stop spinning so violently.
She stood and the men in the room looked at her and stood uncertainly. "If you'll excuse me for just a moment," she managed a strained but pleasant tone.
"Of course, Miss Granger," Ronald said and he looked at his father questioningly.
Hermione left the room swiftly, avoiding her mother's eye and deathly stare. She walked at a pace becoming of a lady until she was out of eyesight and then she took off at a run, her boot heels thudding hard against the wood floor. She leapt out of the front door and took off running toward the wooded path behind her house.
A girl of seventeen and already expected to marry some man she hardly knew, a man who seemed half as interested in her as she pretended to be in him. The world was such a cruel place, especially for the fairer sex. All she wanted was to attend a university, study the written word, find a man who loved her for her and not for what her family and her name brought to the table.
The world seemed to be closing in around her, the heavy summer air a cruel, taunting parallel to the crushing feeling in her chest. She continued running down the path and eventually, the path ended. But she kept on running through the thick brush, removing her boots to do so more readily. She had given every thought to what she would do if she ever ran away—she'd travel to Paris and see the newly constructed Eiffel Tower. She'd run away and search for the lost scrolls from the library of Alexandria. She'd ride on a ship to America and see the Statue of Liberty beckoning her to her new home.
Never, not once, did she dream that when she actually plucked up enough courage to run, she'd end up barefoot and hustling through the woods behind her home, praying that she could get lost enough to never be found. Hermione was adventurous as a child, but never had she come this deep into the wood. The trees' branches were thick and intertwined, creating a dense canopy that blocked out most of the sunlight and dropped the temperature a few degrees.
Hermione continued to fight her way through the branches, snagging the skirt of her gown on a particularly jagged stick. She had to tug her skirt free and a scrap of fabric remained. Never mind it—clothing mattered so little in a world that was against her. She continued to walk, her pace slowing as the day grew longer. She had no idea how long she'd been outside and she couldn't even see the position of the sun to estimate.
When her legs grew weary and she felt near collapsing, Hermione laid down in a mossy clearing, her face pressed against the cool, damp earth and closed her eyes to rest. The smell of the soil and the feel of the cool mist spreading around her as twilight began to fall comforted her.
It wasn't until night fell and the wood became so dark that she couldn't see her own hand in front of her face that she grew worried. The peaceful sounds of the forest during the day were replaced instead with sharp cries of animals. The baying sound she heard conjured up frightening images of wolves and other monstrous creatures of the night.
She sat with her back against a tree, listening to the squeaking of a bat above when another sound frightened her more than any other—the rustling of underbrush and dead leaves, a cadence that denoted footsteps of the human kind. Hermione was suddenly aware that she was in the world alone, no one to come to her defense should the intruder prove to be nefarious. She held her breath, careful not to make a single sound.
A twig snapped close to where she was and she clenched her eyes shut, praying that the individual would carry on. Another branch snapped and she felt the rustle of pant legs against her arm. She could see a faint light behind her eyelids and willed herself to be swallowed into the ground. Evidently, the person felt her presence, or perhaps saw it in the bluish light because she heard the sharp sound of two male voices.
"Who are you?" demanded the first gruffly.
"Theo…is that really necessary?" said a second.
Hermione felt a hand softly touch her knee and she finally opened her eyes. In front of her stood two boys—men—of around her age, illuminated by a strange bluish glow that emanated from the end of a wooden stick in the blond haired man's hand. What a curious object. The blond was crouching in front of her, his hand still resting on her knee as he searched her face. The taller, more brutish man, stood with his arms crossed, looking the menacing counterpart to the blond's kindness.
"What are you doing out here all by yourself?" the blond asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She could tell he was trying not to frighten her. "I—I got lost," she mumbled.
The tall man scoffed. "I'll say. Aren't you the Granger girl?"
Hermione looked from his face, hidden by gloomy shadows, to the blond in front of her. He looked slightly amused and had one eyebrow raised. "You are, aren't you?" he asked, his voice full of wonder and awe.
She nodded her head once and the tall man stomped his foot and swung around, smacking his hand across his thigh. "Dammit, Draco. I knew it. We've got no choice," he said emphatically.
The blond—Draco was it?—put his hand up in a manner of silencing someone. "Will you hush? You're scaring her."
"Well what else do you suggest we do?" the tall man—Theo—hissed. "Obliviate her?"
"No!" Draco said sharply. "We are not obliviating her…neither one of us are decent enough not to wipe her memory entirely."
Hermione looked between the two men. What on earth were they talking about, obliviating? Was that some strange term for hitting her over the head and knocking her unconscious? Theo huffed. "Exactly. We need to bring her to Lucius and Narcissa. They'll know exactly what to do!"
"Why can't you just leave me be?" Hermione asked, sick of being talked about as though she wasn't sitting right in front of them.
At this, Draco looked down at her sadly and stood. "You've seen too much now…heard too much."
Hermione was utterly confused. Seen and heard too much of what exactly? Draco stood in front of her and extended his hand to help her up, the strange stick still clutched and glowing in his other. She took his hand and stood, peering into the darkness to her left—the direction she thought she'd come earlier that day. Theo grabbed her arm gruffly. "Don't even think about it, Princess. We've got ways of petrifying you dead in your tracks."
Hermione looked into Theo's face, a handsome though exhausted and worn face. He was glaring at her angrily and she silently wondered what she'd done to make him angry. What she'd seen and heard too much of. Draco grabbed Theo's wrist. "Let her go, Nott."
Theo grabbed his arm away harshly and pointed another similar stick at Draco's face. "If we get found out because of her, I will personally Avada her. And then you, for not allowing me to obliviate her right away."
Draco pushed the stick out of his face and rolled his eyes. He turned to Hermione and gave her a kind, but sad smile. "He is right…we're going to have to bring you to my parents."
He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She pulled it back to herself and then used that same hand to smack him across the face. "I'm not going anywhere with either of you."
Theo raised an irritated eyebrow, the purse of his lips turning up in one corner in amusement. "She's a pistol."
Draco stepped up to her once more and took both of her wrists. "I do not take kindly to being assaulted, miss. I'd thank you not to pull a stunt like that again," his voice was icy. "Now, we're going to my parents. Resistance is futile—Theo is absolutely right. You won't make it farther than that tree to your left before one of us stuns you and carries you off."
Hermione began to cry as Draco's hands held steadfastly to her wrists. He wasn't hurting her, but it was unpleasant being held so stiffly. Her heart began to thrum erratically in her chest as she recognized for the first time that she was in real danger. These strange men, with their talk of obliviating and stunning, were intending to steal her away.
What a fool she was for running.
o-o-o
