Menteur: Chapter 15: Of Sweet Dreams and Magic
November 9th, 1943
Soft spoken words, almost a whisper, reached her ears in melodious tones. Each syllable pronounced with extreme precision, grouped with others into an unknown rhythm of ancient chants.
But the sweet sound wasn't what brought her mind to awareness. It was the intoxicating surge of magic all around her, tickling the tips of her fingers, pulling on her hair and playing with her mind. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she felt this good. The magic streams flowed freely through her body, mingled with her own and slowly started to settle deep in her bones, causing her heart to drown in the euphoric feeling. It made her feel powerful and impervious.
Without opening her eyes, she concentrated on the silky music of the chant. She couldn't understand the meaning, nor did she knew the language spoken; it sounded foreign and ancient… Latin, perhaps.
Where is it coming from?, wondered Hermione. She forced her mind to concentrate and for the first time she realized her own lips moving in synchrony with the spell. She could hear her own voice spelling out the words of the unfamiliar tongue with such ease it seemed almost natural, like she has always known it. There was another, deeper, voice, simultaneously reciting the hymn, matching her every word for one of its own. The young witch freed her body from the overwhelming hold the alien magic had on it and commanded her eyes open.
In darkness in front of her sat Tom Riddle. His posture perfectly mirrored hers; his long legs were folded neatly underneath him, both of his arms stretched forward, slender fingers of his hands lightly touching a piece of parchment lying on the ground between them. Without interrupting the chanting, which was uncontrollably leaving her mouth, Hermione glanced at the writing on the parchment and immediately recognized old hieroglyphics. What was this? Did she know the language of pharaohs?
Her gaze went back to young Riddle. His head was slightly tilted forward, causing his wavy hair to fall leisurely over his closed eyes. His pale lips barely moved as he pronounced the words. His face was calm. Only thing that did not match his completely serene expression were his thick eyebrows, which were furrowed in concentration.
As if he could feel her gaze, his dark eyelashes fluttered open and the cold obsidian orbs met her amber ones. Neither of them stopped chanting, but Riddle's lips formed a small tentative smile. If she'd had any control over her body, Hermione was sure her breath would hitch in her throat. The dominant magic flow held her in place though, commanding her lips to move and her lungs to inhale and exhale regularly. Following Hermione's example, Riddle's eyes traveled to the yellowing parchment and Hermione finally found the strength to look around. Wherever they were, it was pitch black except the pale gold glow emitted by the magical paper. She couldn't see farther than few feet- only darkness surrounded them.
Then suddenly the soft rhythm died on her lips and a vigorous gust of magic left the glowing parchment. It was invisible, but she could feel it crackling the air around them, swirling and expanding. It was incredible; the ancient object completely released its power, which was now lingering in the air. Such spells were nearly impossible to perform, but THEY did it! It would be so easy to reach out and let her body absorb it, blend it with her own, control it.. the temptation became almost unbearable. Their eyes met again, and both Hermione and Tom knew what to do. There was only one way to acquire the power- they both performed the ancient spell, they both must accept this power together. Tom's arm readily sneaked forward, palm opened, a silent proposal of cooperation.
Power corrupts, Hermione remembered. But right now there was nothing she desired more than to be completely and utterly corrupted. She could feel the potential, all the knowledge hidden in the forbidden spell and she wanted it all. Decisively she reached for Riddle's awaiting hand.
Something flickered in her peripheral vision.
She stopped in her movement and looked around. All around them, stood people and not just any people, all of them were Hermione's friends and family. Her eyes traveled over her lost parents, the Weasleys, Luna, Lupin and Sirius, professor Snape and many others, until they settled on three figures standing right behind young Voldemort. On the right stood Ron, looking at her confused and slightly angered, on the other side stood Harry with an awkward smile and tussled hair, watching her expectantly, and in the middle stood the love of her life and her late husband, Draco Malfoy. His expression almost ripped her heart out of her chest. He simply smirked at her conspiratorially like he knew exactly what was going through her head and shook his head. Was she betraying them? Suddenly all the memories of her previous life became fuzzy and the people around them started to disappear until there was only Draco left. What does this mean, thought Hermione confusedly, her mind blank.
"I can give you everything you want, Hermione…" quiet whisper escaped Riddle's lips. His tone was even and measured, but his dark eyes were wide in excitement. He wanted this just as much as she did. Finally letting her desire to take over, she grabbed Riddle's hand and entwined their fingers. As soon as their fingers touched she heard an unearthly shriek and Draco's lifeless body collapsed to the ground, blood and dirt smeared over his face, as his head soundlessly hit the ground.
"Noooo!" screamed Hermione and tried to free her hand, but it was too late. The magical connection was established…
With a loud gasp Hermione abruptly sat up in her bed. Drops of sweat ran down her spines and she struggled to catch her breath. No, I'm sorry! I love you! Draco, please, forgive me!, her mind screamed relentlessly. Slowly her vision cleared and she realized she was indeed in her bed in the Room of Requirement. The old clock on the wall told her that it was barely half past 11 p.m.
It was a dream, just a dream…repeated the witch in her head again and again, wiping the salty tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her PJs. She could still feel the magic..
She cautiously looked around, only to find the room completely deserted except Abraxas, who was soundly sleeping on the other side of the bed. His body was almost fully submerged in heavy blankets save for his pale blond mane and one arm which was curled underneath his head temporarily replacing a missing pillow. Draco's motionless body lying on the dirty ground, covered in blood and dark soil, came to her mind and she was unable to stop more tears from spilling. She betrayed him, she betrayed Harry and all the good wizards and witches of the Order. She exchanged them for power. She helped Voldemort, for Merlin's sake! What kind of a person was she? She panicked.
Draco! A muffled cry resonated throughout the room and Abraxas stirred in his sleep.
How could she do this?
Air. She needed air. She needed to leave. NOW!
As quietly as she could she got up, dressed herself and walked into the corridor.
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Tom Riddle woke up with a gasp. The dreams of power and magical object weren't unusual for him, but this particular episode felt different, nearly too real.
In his dream, he saw Serena. At least, he thought it was Serena. The girl he dreamed of look almost exactly like Serena, except for few details. Most notable of them being that instead of soft jet black locks he was used to, her hair was a large mass of robust hazelnut-colored curls. But that couldn't interest him less. What he found interesting was the name; he distinctly remembered calling her Hermione. But why? He couldn't think of ever encountering anyone of that name. He has only read it in muggle books of myths, referring to the goddess of knowledge. Was it possible that his brain simply supplied the name because of Serena's obvious intelligence? Another curious difference between Serena and "Hermione" from his dream, was that the latter had a word Mudblood carved into the flesh her right forearm. Serena, on the other hand, was a pure-blood and definitely did not have anything on her forearms…or…or did she? Tom actually couldn't not remember a single time she wore any clothing without long sleeves. Didn't she wear her wand holder on her right arm? Could she be muggle-born? When he tried to look up Durand on the list of wizarding families, the name itself popped-up more than dozen of times- obviously being one of the most common names in France. Also, she was sorted to Slytherin and no non-pureblood was ever sorted into Slytherin- well, except for himself, but he was Salazar's heir. Could she have cheated the Sorting Hat? And was his dream even based on reality?
Suddenly enticed with this riddle, Tom tried to recall everything from the dream. He could almost feel the intoxicating pull strengthen as their chanting went on. He had no doubts that part of the magic he felt was hers. He could feel it rushing through his veins, he could feel her. The ancient spell they performed was powerful, more than anything he has ever encountered in his life and he knew he would not be able to do it on his own. Could they do it in reality?
With head filled with many unanswered questions and probably unable to go back to sleep, Riddle decided it wouldn't hurt to visit the library, maybe study the hieroglyphics. After all, it was only 11:35 pm.
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Finally back on the track! Enjoy!