The soft pattering of rain echoed off the walls as Hermione let her feet guide her down the dimly lit hallway. The old floor boards groaned with every step she took. Ahead of her, she could hear the soft hum of Ronald's snoring coming from his bedroom. Not wanting to disturb him or Harry, Hermione made the turn towards the staircase.
No matter how many times she had done it, the house had always given her a slight edge to its dark interior, the dusty rooms, and especially the horrid trophies of house elves that lined the stairs. Shuddering, Hermione grasped the front of her sweater tighter to her chest and descended down, eyes focused on the ground and not on the many paintings that watched her go by.
It had become a nightly ritual on the cold nights when the wind would whip itself against the windows of her bedroom that she would awake and find other ways to entertain herself until sleep would finally lull her back to bed. Though she never admitted it to herself, she knew it was never the howling winds that kept her awake.
Silently slipping passed Walburga Black's painting, as she had the tendency to wake up screaming furiously about the Mudblood staying in her home, Hermione continued down the stairs until she came to the front lobby. There, muttering to himself about something with the stove, Kreacher was carefully polishing the bronze edged mirror. He turned his head to see who had come down, but upon realizing it was Hermione, he simply nodded his head in her direction and continued his work.
Slowly walking down the hallway passed the greasy walls and cobweb-covered doors, she turned the corner into the drawing room. It was odd to think one of the dustiest rooms in the house would be her place of solace. Maybe it was because it reminded her of the old books she would take off the shelves from the library at Hogwarts. Her brow creased at the thought of her old school, and the memories she had made there with her fellow Gryffindors. It was almost impossible to think only a few years ago that she had roamed the halls, laughing with her friends and going from class to class with her bag piled high with books. It split her heart in two to think of how much they had lost since then...
Shaking her head, Hermione wandered over to the piano bench and took a seat, a wave of dust bellowing out in all directions. No matter how many times she came in, Hermione had always admired the drawing room for what it was, even if in all its beauty it still wasn't perfect. She liked it that way. A large window and fireplace, cases filled to the brim with old books, two comfortable enough sofas and a grand piano would suffice just enough for her liking. And the room provided just that.
Pulling her gaze away from the room, she glanced at the latest edition of the Daily Prophet resting atop the piano. Reaching out, she picked it up and flipped it over, eyes sweeping over the headline. As always, it was Rita Skeeter's most recent article on the Witch Weekly. Hermione could recognize that hideous green dress and cat-like grin anywhere. Having no desire to read such rubbish, she scoffed at the woman and threw the paper back down. Running a hand through her bushy hair trying to maintain its ever-growing mass of tangles, she released a long sigh. Time seemed to slow as the ticking clock by the fireplace echoed throughout the silence.
With nothing better to do, Hermione turned to the instrument in front of her. Gently resting her fingers on the keys, she began to play a soft lullaby. Each passing note, she could hear the voice of her mother singing her beautiful melody. Starting as a quiet hum, Hermione found herself singing along:
Deep in the meadow,
Under the willow
A bed of grass,
A soft green pillow
Lay down your head,
And close your eyes
And when they open,
The sun will rise
Here it's safe,
Here it's warm
Here the daisies guard
You from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet,
And tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place,
Where I love you
Her fingers continued to dance across the keys, and even as she came to the last note, Hermione could still hear the soft humming of her mother as she asked to sing it again. Her mother would laugh and tell her it was getting late, and that they had some sort of big day tomorrow. New clients, a camping trip to the Forest of Dean, that time of year when she would board the Hogwarts Express at Kings Cross. Hermione's guesses would go on and on until her mother finally sang her to sleep one final time.
A lump began to rise in the back of her throat, but she wouldn't allow the tears to fall. Hermione took a slow, deep breath before regaining herself and rising from her seat.
They're safe, she told herself. They can't hurt them. They're safe…
It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had entered the living room and raised her wand, igniting the end to pull the memories of her out of their minds forever, and instead granting them the idea to move to Australia. She forced herself not to wonder if they ever missed her at the constant reminder that they didn't even know they had a daughter to begin with.
Not wanting her mind to wander any farther, Hermione furiously wiped at her eyes and shook her head. Grabbing the Daily Prophet from atop the piano, she walked back to the door and quietly pulled it open. Nonetheless, the ear piercing squeak of its old hinges echoed through the house. Hermione winced, hoping she hadn't woken her fellow roommates up.
Moving as silently as she could, Hermione began her journey back to the kitchens. It's small and cozy demeanor seemed welcoming on a night like this, especially for an evening glass of hot chocolate.
Stepping into the kitchen, she looked towards the long table in front of her. The musty smell of stale bread and Ron's dirty plates from dinner filled the room with a sudden discomfort. Scrunching her nose and shaking her head at her red-headed friend, Hermione stepped forward and pulled out her wand. With a flick of her wrist and a simple cleaning enchantment, the large array of dishes was sent floating over to the sink where a wash rag and old bar of soap began its work. Another simple flick, and a large brass kettle was filled with a creamy white milk and two spoonfuls of cocoa powder. Igniting a small flame underneath the stove top, Hermione quickly stirred her beverage and set the kettle down, the smell of chocolate and cream filling her senses with a warm and fuzzy feeling.
Sighing to herself for what felt like the hundredth time that night, she wandered about the room, taking in the sights around her: the cracked plates stacked against the far wall, the old wood burning oven, piles upon piles of weeks worth of Daily Prophet's humbly provided by the Weasley's. A flicker of jealousy arose within Hermione upon thinking of the freedom they received for still being a part of the many pure-blooded families within the wizarding world. While blood traitors they were considered, it didn't matter who's side you had been on over the course of the last two years; fear was the thing controlling most people nowadays.
Hermione continued her stroll about the kitchen, waiting for her drink to finish while the lack of sleep finally started to take its toll. Rubbing her heavy eyes with the palm of her hand, a gruff, bullfrog-like cough brought her back to the present.
Kreacher stood in the doorway, looking as tired, pale, and batlike as he usually did. Though his view on Hermione hadn't altered much, she had seen a slight change in his behavior ever since she, Harry and Ron had moved into the residence of the Black's family home and stayed as often as they could. Perhaps it was the thrill of finally having someone to serve again, or even just a way to entertain him as they moped around for having nowhere to go but the next room. Either way, Hermione could say the elf was in a "better" mood than when she had first met him.
"A letter has arrived," he stated, his large, sagging eyes boring into her own. "For Master Potter, Weasley, and you, Mud-" Abruptly cutting himself off, he took a breath as if waiting for the right words to come to mind. "And you, Miss. Kreacher has it here."
Hermione's eyes widened in shock, as he never had addressed her in such a way before. Kreacher had always addressed her as "the Mudblood" until Harry put a quick stop to that by threatening to give him one of his old shirts if he dared speak to her that way again. From that point on, he never said anything to her; a nod in her direction was the most he ever sent her way.
Audibly swallowing, Hermione walked over and gently took the letter from his wrinkled hands
"Thank you," she whispered, not knowing what else to say. Kreacher simply bowed his head ever so slightly and turned back to the dark hallway.
The soft whistle of the kettle brought her eyes away from the letter and back to her evening beverage. Settling the letter next to a candle, Hermione trotted over and removed it from the stove top. Grabbing a mug from the edge of the sink, she filled her glass to the brim with the sweet and creamy liquid. A sensation of chocolate warmth sent chills down her spine as she took her first sip, relishing in the way her cold fingers soaked up its radiating heat.
Walking back to her seat at the table, Hermione studied the letter for a moment before opening it. It's dark maroon seal resembled that of the Ministry of Magic's, meaning whatever it was, it wasn't good. She took a quick glance behind her to where Kreacher had been standing just a minute before, now realizing as to why he was being so polite beforehand.
Hermione carefully popped open the seal and took the contents from inside the envelope. The first slip was the latest Muggle-born registration commission. While they came with every letter sent, she still clenched her jaw as she read it's bold, black lettering:
MUDBLOODS
AND THE DANGERS THEY POSE TO
A RIGHTEOUS PURE-BLOOD SOCIETY
Hermione's blood-boiled as she threw the paper aside and continued to empty the envelope's alcove. The pamphlets were an everyday seen occurrence now, as they filled every copy of the Daily Prophet, every letter sent to a Muggle-born family, or even plastered outside wizardry shops owned by Muggle bloodlines. She was used to the disgrace, but it still hurt at times.
Not wanting to dwell on the mistreatment of the ridiculous papers, she picked up the next slip of parchment. The silver lettering seemed to leap off the page from its black background. Carefully reading it over, Hermione recognized it as the annual invitation sent out for the event she dreaded most. She made a quick mental note to mention the time, date and place to Harry and Ron.
Her attention was no longer on the invitation, though, but the original letter. She began reading its contents, and Hermione wasn't at all surprised about what she found inside. It was always the same anyway. As such, she read every word provided:
Dear Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger,
We are very pleased to inform you of this year's much awaited Hunger Games! We here at the Ministry are ready to take the course of action needed to maintain a pure-blood society for all days throughout. After all, by keeping in time with old ways, and continuing pure bloodlines, it ensures the existence of the magical world.
From the time of the Second Wizarding War, when the Dark Lord was in control, he created a great empire of power for the wizarding world. With intentions to expand, he never got the chance, as the Undesirable No.1, Harry James Potter, struck him down in order to regain "peace" to the world. This was quite the opposite. With riots each day at the Ministry bringing down those in power, and the imprisonment of hundreds of pure-bloods who sought after the same ideas and beliefs as the Dark Lord, it fell into utter chaos. The Order of the Phoenix, a secret society founded by previous Hogwarts Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, to oppose the Dark Lord and his loyal followers, had no intention of putting a stop to such ways, and as a course of action, the valiant and faithful followers of the Dark Lord decided to put their foot down. Dark days they were, when the Ministry and Death Eaters lost so many brave souls to the despicable people who wished to leave our world in utter madness, no status of sorts, and to continue to teach the next generation of bright witches and wizards of these horrible changes. This recurrence of rebellious acts occurred not only in our home country, but in twelve surrounding countries, each struggling to regain control of the Order's influence on its magical citizens.
Nonetheless, we at the Ministry took pity on the souls who rebelled against us, but as every action comes with a price, we wish to ensure it never happens again. The Treaty of Treason, signed by those twelve neighboring countries, gave us new laws to ensure peace and, as a yearly reminder of the rebellion from the Order and its followers, it paved the way for the Hunger Games.
The rules for such games are quite simple. As punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve countries must provide two tributes to participate, where the names of these tributes will occur on the day of the Reaping (see date and time for more information) . The twenty-four tributes will be challenged within an enchanted arena that can contain anything from three to ten extremely dangerous trials. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death, without permitted magical objects; this includes wands. The last tribute standing wins, unless two tributes from the same country are still standing when the time comes, to which both tributes will be crowned with the title of victor.
We at the Ministry take this with a heavy heart, but in order to remind that the Order of the Phoenix's ways are not to ever be repeated, we must engage as such.
Hoping this letter arrives to your residence well,
Dolores Umbirdge
Hermione took in every word as she re-read the letter over again. As she did, her grip on the letter tightened to the point her hands were violently shaking. Grabbing the top of the page, she pulled down and ripped the invitation letter down the middle, knocking her drink to the ground in the process. Not quite finished with it, she picked up the candle and held it beneath the paper.
It's orange glow illuminated the dark writing, and before she could second guess herself, the paper crumpled in on itself as it began to burn. Hermione dropped the letter into a nearby coal bin and slumped against the wall, watching as the flames danced around the edge. She was mesmerized by its pattern until the last flame died out. The only thing remaining was the small pile of ash and a melted stain of wax near the bottom of the pail.
Holding her legs close to her chest, she rested her head against her knees as the tears began to pool in her eyes. As much as she tried to control emotions, Hermione let the tears fall. She did not sob, nor even whimper. Silent tears continued to leave shiny trails down her cheeks as she cried for her parents. She cried for her friends. She cried for the families who had already lost so much. She cried for the next batch of tributes who would be forced to fight each other like animals. Her tears continued, and somehow she couldn't make them stop.
It was only when she felt a light touch to her shoulder that she looked up into the tired, green eyes of her best friend.
Harry sat beside her, putting an arm around her shoulder while his head rested against hers. She didn't know if he knew why she was there in the early hours of the morning, sitting on the kitchen floor crying her eyes out, but she could bet he had a good guess.
Hermione finally started to regain control of her emotions as her breathing became less ragged and her hands steadied themselves. They sat in comfortable silence for what seemed like hours until he finally spoke. "Did the letter arrive?"
Knowing what he was talking about, she slowly nodded her head, sinking deeper into his embrace. Harry tightened his hold around her, and the two sank back into a comfortable silence.
"It smells like chocolate," he commented, giving her a weak smile while gesturing to the broken mug on the floor. She gave him a weary smile and flicked her wand, the mess disappearing in an instant. Her watery smile quickly faded.
Hermione was eternally grateful to have someone like Harry as her best friend, her brother, and stubborn as he was at times, she called him family.
Her thoughts wandered to the Reaping, and while she knew it was the hardest day for him to see his friends and loved ones forced into an arena where they were forced to fight each other to the death, she intended to be there for him every step of the way; as he intended for her.
Hello my fellow Potterheads!
I am so sorry for the lack of updates, my schedule has been jam packed lately and I've barely had enough time to think let alone get an update in! So again, those waiting on the next chapter to any of my unfinished works, I will get those out ASAP!
***As for this story here, this was actually an assignment for one of my classes! We were supposed to pick a book, or multiple books, and write a "book companion" to it...I was almost bouncing out of my chair as essentially my teacher gave us the assignment to basically write fanfiction! So I decided to share what I wrote for my class, and I will give you a heads up now that a small follow up one shot or double shot will be in progress and soon to be released!***
I find it kind of ironic that while I didn't have time to finish my other fanfiction, I was working on this fanfiction...but it was for school...like an actual assignment to write fanfiction...does that make sense?
Anyways, and as always to you lovely readers out there, I hope you have a wonderful morning, afternoon, evening, or night!
-Summerwinds :)