Tags: poetic horror, Monsters and Creatures AU, High Fantasy AU, Dark Fantasy AU, death, blood and gore, ambiguous/open ending, non-HEA
"Have you heard? There's been another murder in the neighbouring village. That's the second this month, and right off the tails of the three in Willowdale," says Harry, handing Hermione the paper.
She watches the headline dance on the parchment and sets it down, nauseated.
"Are you alright?" He places a hand on her shoulder and worried eyes hidden behind round glasses bore into her. "Maybe you should lie down. You're positively pale."
"I'm fine." She shakes him off and gets up from her chair. "You know the sight of blood makes me ill."
He doesn't deny it.
Not because he believes her—he doesn't, and he's known her for far too long now to be ignorant of such quirks—but because he knows not to upset her when she's like this.
Hermione doesn't know whether to feel grateful or offended.
She doesn't feel anything.
The air stills around them, thick as cotton, fibres of secrets tying knots in the distance between them.
"I should leave," she says after a moment. "I have patients to tend to."
Harry simply nods and waves her off—and, as Hermione walks away, a thread snaps.
Ever since she has returned from Black Hollow, broken-hearted and misty-eyed, something has changed.
Harry has tried to coax the answer out of her—desperately, violently. He has begged and cried and asked: where is the sister I love so dearly? where has she gone? will she return to me? what has occurred in Black Hollow? why did you return? And through every question, every doubt, every tension, Hermione has remained tight-lipped, so silent Harry often wonders if her voice has been stolen from her.
The love between them slowly dissolves—there's too much left unsaid now.
And so, the bond dies. It has deteriorated, thread after thread snapping, until a single string was all that was left.
And now, that too is gone.
Hermione swallows back tears as she closes the door behind her. Harry can never know.
Outside their cottage, sunlight cascades in shades of yellow and white over the village, letting an illusion of peace and calm reign. In truth, beneath the shimmer of the golden light, there is nothing more than sadness, shadows of pain tightening their coils around the homes and suffocating the families who live there—they're yet to be aware of it.
The worst is yet to come.
Hermione's feet sweep across the pebbles of Little Hangleton in a sad dance—it's her fault, after all, for never addressing what happened, for guarding her secrets like a dragon guards his eggs. And now, as danger looms near the village, as Hermione painstakingly lights a fire to the relationships she still has left—
It's too late.
She remains distracted as she tends to her patients, the small talk filtering through her ears haphazardly and never quite reaching her.
"… the curse of Black Hollow is coming here, Healer?" asks Parvati as Hermione rubs a paste of herbs on her chest. She only catches the last few words, her mind spinning as soon as Black Hollow is mentioned.
"Excuse me, I'm terribly distracted today." She rushes through the words, barely articulating them. "What were you saying about Black Hollow?"
Parvati frowns ever so slightly, as if confused by the Healer's behaviour. "I was asking if you thought the curse of Black Hollow was coming to Little Hangleton." She pinches the edges of her red tunic and drags the sleeves back up. "You've heard of the curse, have you not?" There's a hint of judgment in her tone—bitter arugula flowering on the edges.
"I'm a Healer, not a Witch," scoffs Hermione—she regrets it almost immediately. She bites her tongue and focuses on the ordinance she's writing down for Parvati.
The patient seems unfazed by Hermione's behaviour—instead of walking out in a storm, she explains, "The murders, Healer. The murders from Black Hollow that have plagued the neighbouring villages. They've begun calling it a curse because it follows a pattern. The pattern ends here, in Little Hangleton—so they say. The Elders warn of murders coming to our quiet little village."
Hiding the tremors in her hands proves hard for Hermione—she's riddled with them, and they crawl up her arms and climb inside her bones, and she feels like she's about to faint.
"I—yes, I have heard about that." It falls out of her mouth without grace, the limbs of her words slowly detaching until her voice is but a whisper.
Parvati doesn't ask—she never asks. Perhaps because she's healed now and she does not care anymore. Perhaps because this was just small talk, a way to pass the time during treatment, and she's grown bored. She's content just grabbing the ordinance handed to her by the Healer and walking away—but not without shotting Hermione a worried look on her way out, eyebrows arching and eyes widened ever so slightly.
Once the door is closed, Hermione collapses to the floor, too drowned in the anguish to even consider making it through the day.
The curse of Black Hollow.
It makes sense, of course—Hermione has been foolish to hope that what started in Black Hollow would stay there, rather than follow her until she's at its mercy, lungs gasping for air and flesh necrosing under its spell.
She has always known, deep down. Leaving was an impulse, a call from the mind beckoning the heart. She should have stayed—she should have—
The world spins around her as she desperately tries to hang on to the last shreds of reality before they crumble between her hands. The table has gone from burnt umber to charcoal black, soon to be dust, the colours draining from her view, meaning lost and whispers of hope all but forgotten.
Little Hangleton will soon be swallowed up by the same darkness that has drowned her.
And there's nothing she can do about it.
She lets that thought settle in, nestled between the memory of her mother's death and the burning vision of Harry's stare as he reconciles with the loss of his sister—it snakes through the late-night murmurs of doubt, the desaturated sounds of her father yelling and grabs her from within, like a shadow.
Powerless.
When she finally comes up for air, she can smell the stench of her own rot permeating the room, foul and thick with regrets.
Perhaps the one they call the curse is more than a legend imagined by simple minds to explain the dark shadow decaying Black Hollow—perhaps it's a real curse, threatening to eat her whole.
Perhaps it will drag her soul through the gates of Hell.
Because Hermione is already dead.
She died the day she left Black Hollow.
She spends the rest of the day in a violet haze, unfocused eyes swallowing up the colours of Little Hangleton and mute lips bidding adieu to those she loves. The pattern is clear now—she's certain of it. A spiral—it starts in Black Hollow and spins in circles, smaller and smaller—three deaths in Willowdale, two in Oakheart—and before that—
Thirteen deaths in the shadow town.
Little Hangleton is the last stop.
The curse is coming for her.
The curse is coming for her, following its pattern, but it's already dark out and she hasn't seen a thing yet and—
She hastens her pace, suddenly draped in a sense of dread, seized at the throat by the obviousness of what is to come.
In her despair, in her sadness, in her own self-obsession, she has forgotten—
But it's too late. Once she steps into the kitchen, her world turns black and she sees what she should have known to expect, what she should have prepared for, what had been foretold and prophesised.
Harry's bloodless corpse lies next to the table where they have—where they had—breakfast every morning; fried eggs oozing salted butter and sizzling pork meat peppered with blue salt from the Wallowing Sea; where they laugh—where they laughed—over the silly adventures Luna would take him on, from walking the Sleepless mountains under the cover of night seeking out violet bears to the trails across the Old Country sprinkled with strange meetings; where Harry comforted her once she returned from Black Hollow, strong arms holding her as the light went from golden to tangerine to black, whispering words of love in her ears.
His spectacles are broken and his bones are shattered—he has put up a fight—and there are bruises flowering on his skin, dark purple and sickening green and—
"Hello darling."
Hermione whips her head around in a daze, fighting off the tears welling up in her eyes. Beyond the blur of salted mist, she discerns a pale face carved in marble and a head of jet-black hair.
The curse of Black Hollow.
Or, as Hermione knows her, Pansy.
"Y-you killed Harry," she whimpers, no longer able to hold her grief back—it sits at the tip of her tongue, ready to jump out and drag her with it.
"I had to, didn't I?" She walks over to Hermione, the candlelight bringing dancing shadows to life on her skin. At the corner of her lips, there is dried blood. "You left."
An emptiness grows in Hermione's gut—collapsing stars fall to the pit of her stomach, coating the insides of her organs, suffocating her with their dust. She chokes and coughs, and the emptiness overwhelms her and infiltrates her blood until it turns black and she collapses to the ground, gasping for air and choking on her own tears—on her knees, in front of Pansy, in front of the curse, succumbing to it.
"You shouldn't cry, my love. I did it for us," whispers Pansy, kneeling in front of Hermione and snaking a cold finger under her chin. "He kept us apart. Prevented you from returning to me."
Hermione keeps sobbing, consumed by grief, unable to register the words.
"Black Hollow hasn't been the same since you left me. I needed you by my side, and you left—you left me to rot there, alone." There's venom in the words now, it seeps through the air and turns it foul and green, acidic in its bite. "You don't know how much I've longed for you, how much I've thought about you. No one ever came close to you—and trust me, I tried. Some of them were so pretty—pretty little dolls I thought I could replace you with. They all succumbed at the first bite," she sneers.
Hermione sobs harder, wails pouring down on the wooden floors and flooding them with her pain. She can feel Pansy's cold skin rubbing against hers, spreading icicles over her, tearing her from the burn of grief.
"I h-have n-no one a-any-anymore," she stutters, unsure of who she's speaking to. Pansy, or herself, or no one. Harry. Maybe she's speaking to Harry.
"You have me, darling. I came back for you."
Pansy is trying to be soft and warm and welcoming—she's trying to shower her with love and affection and adoration. It's unsettling, unnerving—she's a being of cold, marble skin and venomous blood, drawn with rigid contours and harsh edges. Her love is a poison.
"P-Pansy—"
Two glacial arms cradle her, tightening behind her back and pushing until Hermione dissolves and collapses against her former lover's chest. She can still smell Harry's blood on her—
And she cries harder.
"It will be alright, my love. I will save you," whispers her soft voice into her hair, nuzzling between chestnut strands to keep her further locked within this tower of cold.
It's a twisted love—a twisted declaration. Pansy's love has always been that—a crawling monster from the bowels of Hell, risen to power, destroying everything whole and pure on its way to reign. It drags bloodless corpses behind, an offering of horror and malevolence disguised as something else—something red and soft and warm.
Hermione lets herself fall between Pansy's arms; she lets the lamia undress her, inch by inch, cold hands roaming her skin, mountains of flesh and valleys of bone, driven to insanity by the ethereal touch; thoughts escape her as she succumbs deeper and deeper under her spell, as she travels the glacial seas of pleasure; one hand explores her, touches all that is warm and wet and cavernous, corrupts her and drags sounds from the beyond out of her mouth; red lips that taste of blood devour her, transform her into a dish of luxurious meats, red within and barely browned on the outside, sizzling with juices and flavour, the taste of lemon and butter dripping through; she loses herself again and again in those arms, remembering all the times she's been there before, touch-starved and craving more and more.
Begging for more.
"You're such a pretty little doll, Hermione—my pretty little doll. So good, so docile, so sweet." A long index drags along Hermione's flushed cheek, tender and threatening. She leans in, close to her mouth, letting the puffs of air escaping Hermione's lips blow over her skin. "Humans are so odd," she remarks with a smile. "So… fragile." She dips her fingers into Hermione's mouth, past bruised and wet lips. "So docile…"
For a moment, it's as if everything is forgotten—Hermione's abandonment, Pansy's killings. Time comes to a halt, dampening the walls and thickening the air—all that was left unsaid rots until black mould begins its decay of the home Hermione has shared with her late brother.
Her late brother, whose corpse still sits a mere foot away from her—whose corpse lay there as she let Pansy fuck her until annihilation.
It's grotesque.
"I got you a gift," says Pansy after a moment. Her fingers dig through the layers of her skirts and she pulls out a necklace—a delicate golden chain and, in the middle, carved miniature statues of bone, three of them—a home, a drop of blood, and a heart.
Hermione lets the necklace flow between her fingers, fascinated by the detail carved in the bone. She tries hard not to think about who those belonged to. Who died for this gift to be handed to her.
"Do you like it? I used your brother's teeth—so you could have a little memento of him." The wonder in Pansy's voice is so innocent Hermione could almost forgive her.
Almost.
Instead, she tosses the necklace back to Pansy, disgust distorting her face until she no longer resembles herself.
"You're twisted."
She spits the sentence.
"I did it for you."
Hermione finally finds the courage to stand up to the woman she loves, to the creature who has consumed her thoughts and her feelings for so long.
"No, you did it for you. Because you've never forgiven me for leaving." The blur in her mind finally comes to a focus, sharp thoughts lifting the fog of lust and love and grief that ate through her defences and her willpower. "You're a monster, Pansy. I left because you kill. Killing more was never going to bring me back!"
The lamia is angered now—the rejection bites deep. Her fangs lengthen until they reach her chin; she sheds her skirts and her undergarments—like old skin she's itching to get rid of; her legs come together, bound by the viridescent scales that pierce through her marble skin and glide up and up and up—until her legs are replaced by a snake's tail, menacing and venomous.
"A monster? I am a lamia. Blood is my sustenance." She hisses and Hermione can see tears rolling down her cheeks—the pain of abandonment, just like when she left Black Hollow. "The same blood you took pleasure in tasting," she adds, this time more biting. More violent.
"You tricked me!" cries out Hermione.
"All I did was love you."
"You killed my friend."
"He wanted to take you from me—they all did! They all do! Men are a plague, and their only use is the blood I take from them to feed myself. I rid the village of its worst specimens—and you saw no issue with that until it came to your precious friend." Her eyes are filled with tears now, and she nearly dissolves into cries. "You abandoned me for following my nature. That is the cruellest thing you can do to the one you love, Hermione."
It's like the world is turned on its head, flipped upside-down—nothing makes sense anymore, nothing resonates with the truth anymore. It's just a series of whispers and sounds that suggest evil is good and good is evil and perhaps there is no good and there is no evil and Nature exists only in shades of grey.
But Hermione is no longer lost to the whims of the world, no longer illusioned by the lies of Nature and the infuriating greys that permeate the world around her. She sees clearly now, she sees Pansy for who she is and she sees Harry's corpse and she refuses to fall prey once again to the charms of the devil who has mistaken horror for love.
"I will never return to you, Pansy. I would rather die alone and forgotten than spend another second of my life with you." She spits to the ground. "Return to Black Hollow and leave me be."
A lightning strike of green erupts in the eyes of the lamia—dolour and rage and wrath and a thirst for punishment.
Hermione backs into a corner, feeling the danger tangled in the air and the dread blossoming anew in her gut and her heart beating faster and faster and threatening to burst through her ribcage and break her in two.
Pansy slides forward, her long serpent tail leaving a trail of green fluid on the wooden floors as she does so, the ire crimson red in her irises, fangs ready to lunge forward and drain her former lover of all her blood.
"Fine. If that's what you want, my love, then I shall oblige," she whispers as her chest comes colliding with Hermione's, skin against skin, fire and ice, healer and killer.
And as the fangs sink into the skin of her neck, ripping through her flesh as if it were mere butter, as warm blood gushes out of her, a burgundy river flowing out into the open, thicker and thicker, the stream pulsating, Hermione thinks—