Chapter Three: The Descent
McGonagall led the students to the front steps of an old curiosity shop, generations of stories scraped into the thick layer of dust of grime that blanketed the warped, cracked windows.
"Your world will change forever beyond these doors." Read a sign hanging at an extreme angle above the entrance, the gold letters pealing away slowly, relenting to the inevitable final moments of life when everything becomes clear as your eyes flutter shut.
"That's fucking creepy," whispered a tall Ravenclaw girl, avoiding the sign as she shuffled into the shop. "You think the Ministry could have picked a less foreboding gate."
"There is nothing neither pretty nor clean about what we are about to be exposed to," Hermione muttered, loud enough only for Ron to hear her. "They treat us like show dogs, weeding out the hereditary weaknesses by picking for each male the perfect bitch."
Ron's stomach clenched tight, looking down into the fiery indignation that swelled up in the pupils of her narrowed eyes. "What are you planning, Hermione?"
"Your world will change forever…"
"That's not a straight answer."
"Shh…" Hermione held a finger to her mouth, eyes shutting as a small smile bloomed beneath her finger. "You will see in time."
And you will like it. We both will. It's the only way I can be with you the way I want to.
"How much time? Hermione…"
He's so cute when he begs.
"Can I have your utmost attention?" McGonagall's said gravely, the intonations of her voice displacing the particles of dust that were already settling upon the students who now watched her, eyes unwavering, waiting; some for a last second pardon from the Minister, others anticipating with excitement the sacrifice in the name of their nation.
"I'm glad to see I needn't have said that twice. It means you all understand the enormity of what you are about to undertake."
You've got to be kidding me.
Hermione laughed sarcastically, arms crossing as her brow furrowed.
Christ, Ron thought, now you are never going to get her to shut up, great going Prof.
"Undertake?" She interjected, taking the simple glance McGonagall bestowed upon her as permission enough to talk. "That would require having a choice in the first place."
"Miss Granger, this is neither the time, nor the place. It is your choice whether or not you are willing to breed with your chosen partner." The deputy headmistress said this slowly from between lips so tightly pressed together they had become the same pale color of her face.
"Why can't I choose my own "partner" to "breed with"? I mean, if we have a choice in the matter, why in the world would they have instigated the stupid lottery in the first place?"
"You are the first student to actually ask that question," McGonagall beamed rather obviously, despite her best efforts to remain completely impartial.
Everyone shifted nervously on their feet, eyes roaming to the dilapidated walls of the curio shop. The rapt attention McGonagall wielded only seconds before dissipated with a single word from Granger. Although one ear was pointedly listening to the two, not a soul would openly pay credence to Hermione, for fear of egging her on.
Ron was alone in his blatant ardor of the words that flowed like honey from Hermione's lips. He would later pretend to be annoyed with it, but that was only when he was face to face with her; it could be no other way, he loved her too much.
You love her so much that you raped McClaggen imaging her face. That's real love for you; always willing to sexually assault your wife. Shove it. Just look at him, dejected in the corner. I said, 'Shove it.'
This didn't stop him from stealing a look at Cormac; his finger lazily skimming the rim of an empty vase the same way it touched Ron's lips seductively an hour previous in the cramped bathroom of the train.
&
Compartments became a continuous blur as Ron dashed down the narrow corridor, his feet thumping dully against thick, green carpet. A low hum was all that remained of the voices of his classmates; his ears cottoned by the dead noise. As if by providence, Ron came to a stop when a rapid clicking invaded his muteness, trailed by a wall of smoke.
Cormac stumbled out of a compartment, a joint hanging from the corner of his mouth.
"Hey, cutie," he giggled, and the rest was history.
&
Ron found himself transfixed with the repetitive circular motions McClaggen's finger made, everything else became a haze as his eyes focused decidedly on the movement. Cormac looked up, the dead look in Ron's eyes making him jerk backwards, tugging the vase off the table.
"Shit."
The crashing sound of it breaking cast out a string, hooking the eyeballs of all the students and dragging them onto the bent figure of McClaggen, prodding the glittering pile of destruction and muttering "reparo" under his breath.
As Ron watched the futility of the man's act a ghost image of Hermione appeared behind him, staring down with pity and anger.
You fucked up good, Ron. You are seeing fucking visions now. This is what it is to be like Harry, all crazy like. Isn't it great?
She leaned down and whispered in the Gryffindor's ear, "He didn't fuck you. He let his rage do that to you. Let it break your insides, shatter your soul, like that vase."
"Don't bother fixing it, McClaggen," the professor said, only paying him the slightest of glances. "It's just an illusion, nothing can fix it now."
The mirage-Hermione's eyes pierced Ron's gaze fixedly, branding into his mind the image of a vase full of blood sitting inside McClaggen shattering, crimson seeping through the pores of his skin.
"Only an illusion…" mirage-Hermione muttered, quivering out of existence.
CRACK! Hear that? That is the sound of your last shred of decency breaking in half. You are now officially a bastard.
"No more questions, Hermione," McGonagall added quietly, touching Hermione's arm. "Everyone is scared enough; there isn't any need to frighten them any more."
Granger nodded, all the muscles in her body relaxing simultaneously. She had been too hasty in attacking McGonagall, especially knowing her past with the Lottery.
The shop began to shake violently then, dust raining down over the stiff bodies of the students. Slowly the daylight began to disappear from the windows, replaced by a stony darkness as the building descended beneath the streets of London.
"Are you okay?" Hermione appeared at Ron's side, her face inches from his. Her reflection glaring back at her a hundred times over in the beads of sweat that rolled abundantly down his pale face.
I have to tell her, I feel awful. You don't owe her the truth. The only person who deserves it is Harry; you've betrayed him countless times. Every time you think about her, you are fucking him over. You aren't in a relationship with her, she kissed you once. That doesn't mean a fucking thing. It means everything. Do you even regret how bad Harry is going to get hurt?
Nothing, Ron refused to answer himself at this point. "I'm fine," he told Hermione, grasping her hand secretly in the dark. "Perfectly fine now."
For a few minutes they stood, enjoying each other in silence. Two silver pinpoints watched this with shock, quickly replaced with malicious intent.
"Bingo," muttered a voice, the metallic sheen of their eyes now doused.
As the shop ground to a stop on the marble floor of the foyer, their hands fell apart; content with their time spent together. Light flooded the dusty interior. Pupils dilated, the students stared at the door as it silently open, the entryway framing the controlled chaos that was the Ministry of Magic.
A huge banner hung from the ceiling reading, "Welcome to The Lottery." Scribed beneath the greeting were the words, "Survival through Tradition."
All the activity reminded Hermione of a circus; the excited fervor, the posters, everyone in their best robes talking animatedly about this year's batch of new adults. As the students exited the shop, the scrutinizing eyes of all the wizards looked them up and down, picking out for them potential partners out of the collected group of all the participants from all over the country. Bets were placed, coins exchanged, numbers written secretly by quick quote quills hidden in the pockets of men.
"Let the madness begin," McGonagall, sighed, ushering them over to the registry table.