Just another dramione fanfiction for those who also can't get enough of these two. I was deeply inspired by the Caraval trilogy and The Night Circus for this work.
While I deeply love these characters, I do not own them.
Hope you enjoy!
The Nocturn Trial was a magnificently lawless game.
It begins beneath the low moon of the Winter Solstice, when the sun breathes its last sigh and releases its warm hold on the horizon. In the fading dusk, the trial materializes. Glimmers of light emerge from the palm of a single hand, and with the pulse of magic, a labyrinth is born. Enchanted forests, neon cities, and forgotten empires weave together to form the grandest of tournaments. A game with no rules, a single task, and an impossible prize held in secrecy.
It was said to be an honor to be lost to The Nocturn — a wondrous death — as only the most clever and brightest of all witches and wizards are granted an invitation. The gilded envelopes arrive once a decade and without warning. The fine parchment is beautifully deceiving, shimmering to the touch with the promise of glory. Although etched in gold, the glittering game is one of deception, impending madness and most certainly death. If potential champions dare, only a small swell of crimson blood is all that is required to politely accept entry to The Nocturn Trials.
A roiling fog descended onto the streets of London. It curled up the wet bricks of buildings, painting the city in a mystifying shade of pale crimson as the clouds licked the twilight skies. The mist moved with life upon the slick pavement, dancing with purpose as it shunned the last drizzle of rain. It was a sentient haze — not yielded from the shifting air, but born from the high master, the Prime Presider, of The Nocturn. The sentience carried gold-stroked envelopes to select champions on its gentle, vapored touch. It reached between the cracks of thresholds in contorting wisps as its misted hand stretched across both warm and cold floorboards, materializing with great effort to deliver invitations to forge a legacy.
A whisper carried to Hermione Granger on a light breeze, urging her intuition to hurry home. She cut through the crisp fog as she walked quickly with her head down, listening to nothing but the sound of her boots chirping against the wet pavement and her own brutal thoughts. She slowed her pace, as there was nothing to rush home to except her cats anymore.
As she stopped at a corner, she let her gaze drift skyward to the sweetened, purple-pink clouds and rising moon. She fisted the soft fabric of her pockets. Another evening to kill, another midnight spent counting the creaks in the floorboards with invisible ghosts, and tomorrow would bring another day of waking up alone. This pain isn't forever , she dully reminded herself.
Towards the end, she had grown annoyed with the soft snore that fell from his lips in a constant dribble, but she hadn't anticipated how loud the silence would be when she was without it. Night after night, she heard nothing but the beat of her own mending heart as she willed herself against dialing the memorized sequence of numbers that might bring her the simplicity of familiarity once more. He would come back to her — she knew this. Ron Weasley didn't apply the same pressures to himself as she did. He would return for her if only to reinstate the ease of routine she had taken from him so blindly that morning. She had to pull herself back from the ledge of false heaven each and every night since.
There was fleeting beauty in settling — she knew that now. His small love would dissipate, and the sweet venom of mediocrity would find its way to infiltrate her veins once more. To take one's own hand, instead of rely on the leading palm of another, was daunting. To strive to find a new place in the world was a humbling task.
She had been so confident when she had left him.
The death of her heart had come like a slow poison. The first drop had been the second night when she had dropped his hand to leave the pub alone. He had once again begged her to stay just one more hour, but she knew that hour would turn into three; and as they passed, his back would slowly turn to exclude her from the laughs and whispers. Hermione had left, and she had stood on a corner as she did now, feeling unalterably lost. She had tilted her forgotten hopes to the blackened skies where no stars had shown, then had her first traitorous thought: what if I'm not happy.
She had since drowned in the tides of 'what ifs', or maybe she always had been flailing in them, but was too afraid to notice. Hermione hadn't wanted to admit that he was the source of her festering melancholia at first. She had thrown herself into her work, and finally gotten promoted from training to become a fully fledged auror. She had taken on an array of new hobbies; pottery, exercising, cooking, alchemy, and additional book clubs. She had even begun extended studies into potions and spell-crafting. Hermione had eventually convinced herself that maybe it was Ron's lack of commitment that was the source of her silent misery.
What if I just love him more than he loves me, she would ask herself.
She had known that wasn't true when he had so easily come to a knee, and asked her to be his wife two years ago. "All you had to do was ask," he had told her with a warm smile before sliding the glimmering jail-sentence onto her finger.
What if I don't want to need to ask you to commit to me? A small voice within herself had screamed.
Shortly after she had said yes, Hermione had taken a trip to investigate a murder that had magical traces from an English wizard still at large. She had been seated in a dimly lit Parisian restaurant late in the evening with only herself and an empty bottle of wine. A stranger had so presumptuously taken the empty seat at her table across from her. They had been stealing glances all evening. Hermione hadn't stopped it, as no one had made her laugh that genuinely in ages, and no one had dared to call her beautiful in years. The intrusive thoughts had been sudden and unwelcomed: What if he took me home? They quickly grew relentless. What would it be like to be touched brand new? What if there is something better out there?
Hermione had left Paris abruptly, running from herself and her near infidelity. She had decided then, that it would be a long engagement if only to have time to sort herself out.
What if I made a mistake? She thought often before wakefulness left her after every midnight. She couldn't have made such a glaring miscalculation. No, not when she had so carefully planned out every aspect of her life. To admit she had been wrong about herself, and her needs, was too terrible of a price. To waste the years cultivated, and the small flicker of potential, would be a greater error.
So instead Hermione had maintained and the held the weight of her glittering smile, day in and day out, while her pulse slowed. She had committed her heart to decay in the small home they had shared.
Had the silverware and picture frames always been this lackluster? Had he always insisted on explaining every small detail about his day over dinner? Must he ask again where I've placed his keys? Must he always be home? Can I ever have a moment for myself?
That one bright morning had come all too late, yet too soon. She had opened her eyes to the golden daylight and thought: What if there is happiness in leaving? It had brought the truest smile to her lips, cutting through all the inconsolable blues.
It had ruined him far worse in the initial fallout, but only because she had done the most difficult grieving before she had finally left. She had been a ghost of herself for months — possibly years. He had just never admitted it, and had been content to let depression suck her dry. His feigned ignorance had been his only true flaw. It wasn't that he had drank too much, or had no direction for his life. She had always looked past his lack of ambition, accepting it as he was a good man with a perfectly lovable heart.
"What if you are throwing everything good we've built away?" He had whispered. "What if I could just prove that I love you enough to stay?" Ron had pleaded in the purity of the morning sun. No, she had been confident in her decision to leave then.
Hermione almost wished he had broken her heart so she would have a true reason to hate him and write off their love. She was the one who had been dishonest — not brave enough to face her own mistakes. She had given him the apartment, afraid she might burn it to ash if her intrusive thoughts won.
Hermione's knee-high leather boots scuffed against the front steps as she reached for the keys to her new apartment. She had successfully landed this place only three months ago, as she had spent the first three at her parent's home surviving the shock of it all. She had initially hoped to solve all her existential life questions at the bottom of ice cream cartons and wine bottles.
"This pain isn't forever," her mother had soothingly whispered, all before shoving a list of available units for rent in London into her hands.
Hermione heard her cats mewling in anticipation as she unlocked the door. Crookshanks sat perched on the small table in the foyer with accusatory eyes, while Clover was quick to attempt to claw up her leg as she stepped into her new life. Clover was a new addition to her small family, impulsively rescued in her loneliness after a few long weeks in her new, empty home when she no longer had the distraction of interior design and purchasing a ridiculous amount of decor to distract her mind.
Hermione bent down to retrieve the small black kitten with startling, glacial blue eyes.
"I'm succumbing to my fate. I'll be a cat lady who mysteriously lives far too long," she mumbled into his fur as she held him close.
Crookshanks leaped off the table and landed on the dark wooden floor with grace, revealing an envelope in the most brilliant shade of gold she had ever known. She stilled, brimming with the realization that this piece of mail was sinister in nature. She placed Clover back onto the floor. He skittered into the kitchen to beg for dinner.
Hermione evaluated the letter for any malicious curses or hexes. Once she confirmed the letter was not an obvious threat, she remained with her arms crossed, head tilted with narrowed eyes on the glowing envelope. She sighed and dropped her shoulders as her curiosity finally got the better of her. With the smallest touch of her fingertip, the envelope bursted into a fluttering mass of gilded butterflies. Incandescent, golden dust filled the surrounding air as Hermione's eyes widened in awe. The butterflies dissipated, leaving behind a crimson invitation, and words etched in golden ink.
Hermione mumbled the sumptuously inked words aloud.
"Prospective champion, it is with It is with spectacular pleasure to inform you, Hermione Jean Granger, The Nocturn Trial awaits your welcome. The tournament awakens at nightfall of the Winter Solstice, where what is taken must return. To submit your entry, place a prick of life to the parched parchment."
Hermione turned, wishing to understand how the invitation had found its way through the locks and wards. She pursed her lips once she realized a smile had found her lips. It would be irresponsible — she shouldn't.
She knew of The Nocturn Trials, like all wizards and witches. It was a ghastly game, appearing at random once a decade. The game master was rumored to be nearly immortal, as each arena had been born from his ancient palm for at least two centuries. There were no rules in The Nocturn, only wit, blood, and bone. While the glory was grand, the prizes were grander, nearly unfathomable.
As the murmurs heightened in preparation for The Nocturn, Hermione had ignored them, never considering that she might be chosen. She didn't dare to wish that she might be skilled enough, nearly sure Harry, or even Ron, would be their first choices. To achieve greatness on her own, felt too selfish — and too great of a dream.
She reread the parchment at least ten times, more enchanted by the crisp penmanship as the minutes passed. She paced, slowly fueling with revived purpose. She had been clever enough to help defeat The Dark Lord, and she was one of the youngest aurors to date. Plus, someone would watch her cats.
With the hope for new beginnings, Hermione took out the small blade she carried wherever she may go. She showed no reaction as she broke skin, as she felt she had already been cut a thousand times. The parchment quickly drank from the thin wound as she placed her middle finger on the crimson invitation.