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Abyss
Jan 6, 2007 20:54:21 GMT -5
Post by Willow Short on Jan 6, 2007 20:54:21 GMT -5
This is not my story but another persons. shes an awsome writer and i liked her story so im posting it on here. i hope you enjoy and i hope i dont get chewed out lol. ill post the capters once a week or when i know someone read it. comments are welcome.
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Abyss
Jan 6, 2007 20:59:21 GMT -5
Post by Willow Short on Jan 6, 2007 20:59:21 GMT -5
Prologue The Forbidden Forest had an almost funereal quality of tall tombstones, perfectly erect like pillars of some ruined Greek temple. It was nearly silent, save for the rustling of the leaves, eerie. Now and then the rustling was lower to the ground and the pelt or tail or abdomen of some dangerous creature would pass by the trails and clearings. The air itself was luminescent, glowing with moonbeams even when there was no moon. Eyes glittered like rare jewels, beckoning deceptively. Even in the stillness of early spring, sounds muffled in the denseness of the forest echoed and threw themselves like hallucinations away from their source. It was so easy to get lost. Every tree looked the same; any call was like a reflection, and help was hard to find. The Forbidden Forest was also forbidding, a stern uncle marred by a deformity of bitterness. It made its inhabitants crazy. Beasts killed their own in mad rages like they killed their prey. Sentient plants stretched and waved the! ir tendrils and exotic flowers enticingly. They knew to avoid the paths by now, fearing the heavy tread of disregarding feet or hooves of the creatures who wished to avoid animal entanglements. Hermione was religiously following the path, like Harry had told her a year ago. Of course, Harry did not know she was here. No one did. She had been denied access to Order activities this summer, authority saying it was far too dangerous. "Sirius is dead, Hermione," Lupin said. "This is not something to take lightly." "Do I take anything lightly? I don't even want to go into espionage or battle, I can just do research--" "I'm sorry, Hermione, it's just not possible--" "You think Lord Voldemort makes the distinction between adult and child?" Lupin had to think for a minute. Then, in a low, measured voice, he replied, "I know it's difficult to explain to someone with such a hunger for knowledge and understanding, but even the research could be dangerous. You would not only have to study remedies, counterhexes, countercurses, and other wholesome defensive areas of magic, but you would also have to research Dark Curses, dangerous potions, dangerous creatures, and criminal psychology. The studying of those subjects can be detrimental. You are not one who could escape these studies unscathed." "But someone needs to--" "We have someone who studies. He has paid for it every day of his life. Professor Snape thought he was immune, too, and at an early age, one might say the angel fell from heaven. Believe it or not, Hermione, Snape has not always been like this. Professor Dumbledore and I have discussed this issue extensively already, and we're not willing to make that sacrifice." "What if I am?" "You'd better hope to the gods we don't find out," Lupin said mildly. "Don't be a fool, Hermione. Respect our silent reasons. You have your duties here." Hermione's eyes rolled skyward now at the memory. They were foolish to think that she, Hermione Granger, would just sit around doing nothing while Harry was in danger. When had she ever, when she knew, without a doubt, that she could make a significant contribution? And in this war, they needed all the significant contributions they could get. Dumbledore's Army had now extended to almost the entire school, save a few Slytherins, Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors, and the management had become too much for just her and Harry. Sure, she worked with the older kids and the occasional magic-stubborn younger-years, but it wasn't enough! It wasn't really a challenge. Looking up obscure spells, casting week-long incantations and violent spells, playing with fire, that was a challenge. Ordinary hexes anyone could research, but no one wanted to go through all the work and discipline to do so, that was nothing. So she began sneaking around, invoking a myriad of spells that allowed her into the Restricted Section, perusing confiscated books and book orders in Filch's office, occasionally invading Snape's private laboratory for the shelf of musty, ancient tomes of dark and dangerous potions. She had started these escapades with Harry and Ron's help, and they had been quite proud of her, though a little stunned at what a bad influence they were. But then she stopped informing them, and they thought it had just been a phase. After a while, they stopped asking her to join them on their own adventures, and Hermione realized that Harry and Ron were part of the Order without her. That hurt most of all, that she had completely been bypassed as vulnerable. So she endeavored to prove to herself that she was not. And she was never caught. Now, she was slinking like a criminal through the Forbidden Forest after midnight during a full moon with a thin wreath of wolfsbane 'round her neck, an amulus of collected stones forming a bracelet on her wrist, and a lycanthe drawn on her sinister palm. Silver rings boiled at the previous full moon to incantations of protection graced the fore and fourth finger of the same hand. In a small sheath on a silver girdle was a small silver dagger. Hermione was nothing if not prepared. An old stab of conscience pricked at her eyes as she continued on her way to the liliaths, a poisonous flower that was deceptively beautiful to the degree shown in the legend that they originated from Aphrodite's kisses with Ares. Their petals were often used in the most dangerous of both potions and incantations. Enchantresses and guards of Chrestomanci carried the dust of the flower in small bags at their side. A similar bag hung on her girdle near her silver dagger. In her hands was a pair of dragon-hide gloves and a mortar and pestle to grind the flowers. An overwhelming sense of paranoia and wrongness tightened against her heart, and she stood stock still, listening. When she did not hear anything, she started on her way again, dismissing her intuition as faulty. The sound of hoof beats froze her in her tracks. Ever since fifth-year, the centaurs had been positively malicious and violently defensive. There had been a thirty five percent increase in hospitalization due to centaur attacks. The rims of their hooves secreted a fluid that did not react well to ordinary medicine, so St. Mungo's consistently received a virtual cornucopia of information about centaurs, but the Enforcement Squads still could not keep them in check, especially in the Forbidden Forest. Hermione was hesitant to unsheathe her wand, aware of the threatening picture she would make, indicative that the centaurs' hatred was not baseless. She could only hope the centaur either would pass her or deem her unworthy of his attention. She was unlucky in both respects. The creature was not Bane, fortunately--the most vocal against centaur inequality amongst the magical community--but he was aged and held old-fashioned views of wizardkind. And it was a double blow that this was Firenze's grandfather, who had fought tooth and nail to keep his grandson from joining the human side to teach. Though unsuccessful, the old stallion continued to hold a grudge on the entire wizarding race for the decision his grandson had made. "What goes there?" he called, coming up behind her on the trail. Hermione fell to her knees in respectful deference. Better let him think she was submissive in his presence. "A human? Here? Have we not made it clear to the wizards and witches of Hogwarts they are no longer welcome in this forest?!" The centaur reared up on his graying hind legs, his hooves dulled but still invested with terrific power. Hermione ducked, cried out as the edge of the hoof struck her hair, grazing her cranium. She fell to her side in surprise. "You are never content with your own world, but find it necessary to invade ours. Never any respect for the half-breeds. Substandard, are we? I'll show you substandard!" He galloped to the side and started stomping to her sides, purposefully missing and frightening her by pressing his hooves near her head. "Please, I came for magical supplies! That's all!" she yelled while dodging. "Bah! Hang your excuses!" "I don't want to defend myself, sir. Let me continue in peace." But the old centaur's eyes had taken on a manic glint of a mind set in its ways, and her pleas fell upon deaf ears. Hermione took out her wand. A simple spell would not affect him, but a few of the more harmful ones would. "Serato amule!" she yelled regretfully. A metal circle edged with serrated teeth whirled from her wand and began attacking the centaur. It sliced the horse belly and flank before the centaur had galloped back to the trees to more easily play the magical game. It took him seconds to cause the blade to embed itself in a sturdy trunk from which it was unable to withdraw. The centaur leered at her. "Tried to kill me, eh?" he hissed, panting for breath. "Only because you tried to hurt a person who had shown it was not in her interest to fight," Hermione said, face red and hair disheveled and escaping from its knot on the top of her head. She put her wand back in her sleeve as a sign of peace. "Impudent human, you enter our lands and expect to be protected by your quaint sticks of wood? Take care. We centaurs have other magical designs." He began stepping toward her slowly. "What would happen if I took his horn," he patted his waist where a ram's horn was featured, "and called my brethren? You would not be so brave, I wager." "I could Mute it," Hermione replied evenly. Unease gave him pause. He fidgeted restlessly, nonplussed. A rock flew over Hermione's head at the centaur. He stumbled back, startled. The girl had not thrown it. "How dare you, you cowardly wormhole!" the centaur cried melodramatically as he galloped off to find his new offender. Hermione shook her head, wishing she could have talked longer with him. It would have done well for him to see she truly was not there for seizure. And who or what had thrown that rock? That was the wrong thing to do to a centaur activist, as their demonstrations in Kent had shown. The night had rained with Obliviate. Hermione searched through the haze of the trees, but she could see no one. Anyway, the damage was done, and Hermione continued on her journey through the wood, avidly searching for the liliath patches. It was another fifteen minutes of following the disappearing path, as she was beginning to lose all hope, that the moon shone through in a small clearing just off the path where the liliaths relished in the lunar power on which they lived. Their purple petals shimmered in dewdrops and scented juices, cloyingly sweet to the nose--still, it invoked a powerful taste memory of honey in tea, and it called to her like a Venus Fly Trap. Hermione shook her head to clear her thoughts of all emotions. Liliaths were known to provoke passionate responses, whether in anger, lust, sorrow, happiness, or sympathy. It dripped lethal feelings. Though she was wary of the traditional Forbidden Forest illusions, Hermione's insides quivered with excitement. To be sure, she picked up a stick from the path and chucked it at the clearing. It fell cleanly into the flower patch. Slowly, cautiously, she approached the poisonous flowers, donning her dragon hide gloves and readying her mortar and pestle. Some of the older liliaths were sentient to an extent and would react violently to a near presence. Hermione wished she was wearing complete dragon hide costume, but the expenses had been astronomical and she had declined the "bargain offer." All that was between her and the poison was her clothing, which was not comforting. Hermione hummed a soothing tune to appease the ancient ones. She was not sure how on tune she was, but the large blossoms only trembled harmlessly in the cold wind. "I'm sure they prefer hard rock," a voice said behind her. Hermione resisted the urge to whirl around, cautious of the liliaths' sensitive nature. Instead, she decided to analyze the voice. It was a half whisper consisting of a little malice and breathlessness, a touch of sarcasm, and more than a hint of the dialect of intelligence. A cool tenor underlaid with a frigid metal, accentuated with a rasping that was familiar to Hermione, but she could not place it. "I would doubt it, sir," Hermione murmured, taking her chance for sound. "And I have to ask you to keep your voice low." "It seems as if we are on the same errand. I know how to act around liliaths." The voice became shape as a form with the shoulders of a man slid past her, his cloak trailing in the fallen leaves to the patch. The fabric of the cloak was aptly of dragon hide, the hood large and draped so that shadow obscured his face. "It is simple when one is prepared, as you are not." He clipped seven liliaths from their now writhing stems, caring not for their spitting venom. He flaunted the limp flowers at her. "Some can't afford such preparation," Hermione shot back. "Then some should not attempt such a threat on their life," he replied. "I didn't ask for your concern," she hissed, sneaking up on the liliaths again. "And I wasn't giving any." There was a lull as Hermione reached for the liliaths, balancing herself by extending her arm and gripping the mortar. The man gave an almost inaudibly intake of breath. "I seemed to have made a grave error," he said softly. "I need that mortar and pestle." "Funny, I need it, too. Otherwise the liliaths' power will drain out." Hermione responded almost absentmindedly now, reaching out at the now-warned flowers to pluck seven of them as well. "Allow me. Step back slowly. My services for your materials." Hermione jerked in surprise, and the man had to pull her back quickly so that he received the brunt of the corrosive defense. Hermione choked back a scream as a great splatter landed on her corduroys and began eating through the fabric at an alarming pace. "Take it off unless you'd like a hole through your leg," the man ordered, dragging her to the path while holding fourteen dead liliaths. Without such modesty as an ordinary emergency would afford, Hermione removed the corduroys and tightened her cloak around herself before anything could properly be seen, but a few drops had reached the skin; and Hermione bit her lip until it bled as the corrosive poison began its burning trail through her skin. It took a minute before it had weakened enough for impotency, and she knew she would have to cleanse her bloodstream when she returned to the castle. Taking her wand in hand, she took her corduroys, and with a muttered "Serato," she had cut a wide circle around the contaminated area, then repaired the damage. She turned away from the man, who was watching her work bemusedly, according to the bend of his neck; she knew the precarious position she was in and continued to hold the wand. Her manner was almost austerely quick, precise, and practical, with the swift finesse of habit and the love of accuracy. In his favorable position of strength unseen, the man admired her level-headedness and sensibility in the face of poisoning, and potential ravishment. But he did not move until she had faced him again, fully clothed, though with a slight limp and blood staining the seamless corduroy. In her hand, undamaged, were the mortar and pestle. "Here," she said. "I'll grind them." She held out her hand. The man hesitated; then deliberately, almost balefully, the man put the flowers into the hand. He was much taller than she was, and he stood less then an arm's length away, yet she could still not discern the features of his face, despite the perfect angle. Hermione closed her fingers over the flowers and sat on a jutting tree root to ply her duty. The man sat on the ground, head bowed. "I've a conversation piece, if you'd like to discuss it," the man said lightly. "Go on," Hermione said, pressing the pestle to the first seven liliaths. "Why are you, a student of Hogwarts, in the Forbidden Forest, after curfew, picking Class A Non-Tradable plants? And a prefect, no less?" Hermione flushed a brilliant red as she realized she had worn a cloak with the Hogwarts crest and had pinned her prefect badge next to it on accident. "I could ask the same of you," Hermione replied slowly. "I'm a fugitive of the law. I have an excuse. What's yours?" Hermione resumed her task, deciding not to push the law issue with a criminal who could throw her to the liliaths if he chose. "I'm studying their properties," she said in her most aloof manner. "They're only in poisons and dark incantations..." "Generally." "Then you're studying the Dark Arts," the man said levelly, but the triumph behind his voice could not hide so easily. "So what if I am," Hermione muttered, finished grinding the first seven liliaths. She poured the powder into the bag on her girdle and began on the second set for the man. "It's awfully dangerous, you know," the man said in a rather slippery fashion that Hermione noted immediately and readied herself for an onslaught of questioning. "As a prefect, is it not your duty to prevent this sort of activity? Or have the recent displays of the Dark Arts piqued your interest?" Hermione remained silent, and the man, satisfied with her response, settled back, twirling his wand idly around his long fingers hidden by liliath juice-splattered gloves. The man was almost disconcertingly covered, and Hermione was torn between wanting to see his face and fearing the result. Yes, better to remain as anonymous as possible. "Here," she said, holding out the mortar and pestle. "We have more in the supply closet. I don't need it anymore." The man chuckled as he rose, acting as though he had no need to hurry. He took the proffered equipment, but the hood was thingyed slightly in a curious air. "Ravenclaw or Gryffindor? I'd choose the latter. You're either very stupid or very brave for being here. Not going to tell me? Well then, now that we have properly hidden our identities from each other to the best of our abilities, I will take my gracious leave of you." He bent in a comedic parody of respect and the curve and shadows of his dragon hide cloak on his body gave an impression of thinness. Hermione dared not ask him to follow her to Hogwarts so that she would not have to confront other temperamental centaurs or any other unwelcome beasts. She waited until his cloak was no longer discernable from the night before she gave a tremendous sigh of relief with breath she had not even known she was holding. Then she headed back to Hogwarts. Next time, she told herself, I'll buy the dragon hide cloak at least, and I won't wear anything that immediately identifies me with school. Too dangerous. And more weapons rather than defenses. She reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest relatively unscathed, considering all factors involved. Her blood called to werewolves and acromantulas, and though she saw both, only a small acromantula bit her other leg and injected its weak venom into her body. It was small enough to kick it away, but its insides exploded like rock melon against a tree. Now she doubly limped, and as she passed into the kept lawn of Hogwarts, she felt the effects of the venom. It would knock her out for only a night, but she would have to get back to Gryffindor Tower without anyone seeing her. "Will you make it or do you plan to fall unconscious to the ground as easy prey?" asked the man languidly, leaning as cool as anything against one of the trees on the dividing line. Hermione now felt the freedom to jump. "Invite me in, little student. I can't come in of my own accord," the man mocked in a high voice. "Were you following me?" Hermione slurred. Forming words was more difficult the later the hour and the more prolonged exposure to the acromantula venom. "I knew you'd come this way, and it could not properly be called following." "You can't come in," Hermione whispered, wavering where she stood. She began a drunken gait to the castle. The man laughed cruelly while he almost lustily watched Hermione stumble, fall, and ultimately go unconscious. Then he whirled back into the forest, leaving Hermione in the moonlit night to the mercy of nature. Hermione did not stir from where she lay, but nothing but nonmagical insects touched her that night. She woke early enough in the morning to creep away before anyone saw her, and she cloistered herself into a laboratory to tend her injuries and truly sleep. These were the last healings she gave to herself that left scars
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Abyss
Jan 8, 2007 1:31:42 GMT -5
Post by Willow Short on Jan 8, 2007 1:31:42 GMT -5
Chapter 1
Hermione's anxiety was now reaching its peak as she waited in the long line at Flourish and Blotts. Her vacation had been full with a trip to Italy, then Switzerland as a finale before her graduation, and while she thoroughly absorbed and enjoyed the vacation, she had not visited a single wizarding Alley to buy her new books and supplies or replace old ones. It was now an evening before she would board Hogwarts Express, and she was frantic to get everything done. She had the enormous pile of books to buy, not to mention the apothecary to stop by, Gringotts to replenish her money supply, and Madam Malkin's for new robes fit for Head Girl. Yes, Head Girl. The badge glistened next to her Hogwarts crest. Her escapades the previous year had obviously gone completely unnoticed, which was slightly discouraging on the part of the Order. That she was able to sneak about dabbling into the Dark Arts almost made her feel as if they deserved to be deprived of what services she could have rendered to them. She had found out so much without being pulled to the other side. Of course, she had lost her temper those few times, but they had been understandable. She had been conducting an experiment in the hotel room while in Switzerland when her hair had kept falling into her eyes, finally drifting so completely from the back of her head that it dipped into the liquid on which she was working, thus contaminating it beyond potency. Finally fed up with the years of problems with her hair, she had picked up a knife next to her--still dirty with cricket intestines--and took it to her hair. The results had been a horrid butchery with locks strewn over the floor and Hermione's hair sticking out to the sides. Hermione's parents had been saintly patient with her and took her to a hair stylist to get it cut in a more orderly fashion. She had come out with her hair curled out at the sides of her face in a trendy rumpled fashion. The stylist had told her if she did not want to spend too much time on it, she could use gel and hairspray, but she would not recommend it. Hermione decided drying her hair was better and even quicker in most respects. Everyone was happier in the end, though the Grangers watched their daughter a lot more closely around knives. Then there had been the day she had gotten so frustrated at not being able to understand anyone that windows all along the street on which the Grangers were standing shattered. In the national newspaper there was talk about an insane sniper. The news even reached America, and Hermione was given an international warning for using magic, though it had been accidental. Hermione responded with guilty chagrin and tried to limit her Dark activities to a minimum. They tended to stress her more than it should have. But it had not been the Arts themselves that had caused the fits, Hermione told herself emphatically. The person in front of her had misplaced his change purse, and he had no less than twenty-seven pockets on his person. Hermione tapped her foot impatiently. A number of curses in their phonetic spelling flashed through her mind as inappropriate for this kind of annoyance. She had never spoken these curses aloud, but she knew how they would sound at least. Finally, she reached the counter and gave the bookkeeper exact change. He thanked her with a sigh of relief after all the unpleasant customers he had served that day. Hermione smiled at him as she left. She immediately when back to Gringotts to exchange for forty Galleons, four times more than supplies would cost. Dress robes did not come cheap. Her arms ached with the weight of the books, and, doubly glad she was in Diagon Alley and Head Girl--which allowed certain privileges at times--she Reduced the bag to put them in her purse. Thank Dumbledore for small favors. The apothecary was quick enough; not many dallied lest the smell permeate their clothes. Hermione personally liked it, but she hurried just the same to Madam Malkin's. "Be right with you, dearie," called Madam Malkin through a mouthful of pins. She finished the robes she was working on and came over to Hermione. "What'll it be?" Madam Malkin asked. "Formal wear for the Head Girl?" Hermione opened to mouth to answer, but froze when she realized what Madam Malkin had said. "How did you--?" She wasn't actually wearing wizarding clothing; her cloak with the badge was in her wardrobe back at the Leaky Cauldron. "Oh, news travels quickly, dear. Well, I think I know exactly what you need, both for everyday wear and for special occasions. You can't go around Hogwarts with a Head Girl badge over substandard robes. Come along." And the small woman dragged her to the dressing platform, sweeping her wand up Hermione's body for precise measurements. Then, with a sharp wave and spell, Hermione's Muggle clothing was replaced with the most wonderful, flattering dress robes Hermione had ever seen. The skirts and billowing sleeves were medieval and modest, but the bodice was as tight and encasing as a lenient corset, and the square neckline dipped low on her up-thrust breasts. The robes themselves were a warm navy blue velvet embroidered with a colorful griffin blowing fire on her bodice. But despite the fullness and prudence everywhere else, her chest felt terribly naked. "I--I can't--," Hermione stammered. "You look beautiful, dear, and your hair cut complements your face so well. It's about time it was cut," Madam Malkin said, arranging the folds of the skirt. "Perfect for formal events, and Head Girls are often in many. Now let's see what else we can find for you in casual wear." It took a ridiculous forty five minutes when it would usually take ten, but Hermione was now furnished with five satin robes, an open velvet robe over a crushed velvet dress, and silk robes that reminded her more of drapes, but all looked great--all had low-cut bodices. Hermione sighed. Despite her general aversion to thinking about how she looked or caring about how others thought of her, her inner girl was quietly elated at having good clothes in which she looked good. Maybe Draco Malfoy would be speechless all year as he had been for the entire Yule Ball. He had lost his base after her teeth had been corrected. Yet again, she had bought more than she could handle, and she reduced these new packages as well. She had one more stop, and this one made her heart palpitate apprehensively. Aurors and other Magical Law Enforcement units had really cracked down on the even mild Dark Arts equipment after the end of fifth year. It was nearly impossible to find the information necessary for her studies. The Restricted Section, plus a secret library connected flush against the known library provided a substantial amount of literature, but they were not providing the kind of depth for which she was looking. The only way to find such profundity was in a book completely devoted to the Dark Arts. In this day and age, these were very hard to come by without a tremendous price. Hermione was prepared to pay. The junk shop was sandwiched between two very prominent stores so that many overlooked the thin entrance, but Hermione slipped in with purpose. She went straight to the manager, who was all by his lonesome at the front desk. He was small, slightly balding and gray, and he constantly blew his nose with a purple handkerchief. "What can I do for you?" he asked in a rather nasal tone. "Order number 1381," Hermione answered promptly. The manager did a double take, presumably to see if she had horns above her ears or a forked talk he could not see. When he failed to find anything more demonic than a freckle, he shrugged and lifted up a plank off the floor, then brought a box into view. "Careful with that, missy," he warned. "Whoever asks, it did not come from me. They're Illusioned, and you might be a bit unexpected to them, but I can't guarantee anything. On your own head be it." Hermione took the box and reduced it. "Unusual," the manager said appreciatively. Hermione bowed her head in respect. "Thank you." The manager hesitated, then murmured, "Good luck." She smiled and exited. She felt jumpy as she passed by more and more baleful Aurors at corners and entrances to shops. Her fingers could not stop plucking at her robes or running her fingers through the bangs at the side of her face. But even people who had not trespassed in any way were also anxious confronted with law enforcement, unnatural for them and discouraging with their suspicious scarred scowls. For a semblance of normalcy, she went to the ice cream parlor for a strawberry-dipped chocolate fudge cone with almonds. It made her feel better. A bit calmer than before, she headed back to the Leaky Cauldron where she was boarded until tomorrow. Diagon Alley was usually crowded the day before returning to Hogwarts, and Tom had to add a few rooms to fit the demand, mostly from Muggle-born families. The rooms had been condensed, but they were still comfortable, and Hermione collapsed on her bed. She expanded her bag of books and began reviewing her texts. Until two she skimmed through the books. She chose not to take out her illicit box of forbidden books. She was too afraid that at full size they would set off an anti-Dark Arts device. Her hands itched to turn their pages and study the best information from experienced minds, albeit they experienced everything about which they wrote. It vaguely struck her that by purchasing their works, she was supporting their activities with royalties, but she had to get first-hand accounts to analyze their psychology and study the actions in detail. Know thy friend, but know thine enemy better. How could one do that without completely submersing oneself within the subjects, including their lives, their minds? She wished she could interview Professor Snape, but the prospect of approaching him with such a topic in mind was less than wise considering Snape's notorious temperament. She could not get the Dark books from her head, and she began to worry. Was she addicted to that sort of danger? Were Professor Lupin and Professor Dumbledore right? The road to hell is paved with good intentions, she thought as she dimmed the lantern and climbed under the covers. ~888~ The next morning found her head under her pillow to block against the onslaught of knocking at her door, Tom with his wake-up call. "Sorry, miss," he apologized, then went on to wake up other students of Hogwarts. Hermione groaned, but the circumstances were all against her. She was Head Girl and had to be on the train early to set a good example. She was Head Girl and had to see everyone onto the train. She was Head Girl and had to prep the prefects. Most of all, she was awake and couldn't go back to sleep. She went by Apparition, for which she was extremely grateful because it meant she could get up at the last minute, and landed in an empty girls' cubicle that had 'conveniently' gone out of order the night before. The Platform was nearly deserted. Only a few students with overly anxious parents were milling around, waiting for more people to come so they would feel comfortable getting into the train with everyone else. Hermione had no such qualms and immediately boarded the train. Ernie Macmillan, the new Head Boy, was there waiting for her. "Congratulations," he said, holding out his hand to shake hers. "I don't think anyone doubted it, Hermione." Hermione took the extended hand, forcing a smile onto a mouth that longed to yawn. She did so after her hand was free. "Studying your texts late?" Ernie asked understandingly. "Me, too. Doesn't look very difficult, though. Much of it I studied last year, and I'll reckon you've prepared yourself more for university levels than seventh-year, correct?" "To a degree," Hermione said carefully. "Well, I suppose we should patrol the platform, shall we?" Though Ernie's pompousness was a little wearing at times, she could not think of a better Head Boy. The only person Hermione had ever known with his kind of dedication to both his studies and the rules was Percy. Except Ernie had more common sense and an open mind. He was all right. They left the compartment together and split out the door. More people had come in and already kids were on the train. Hermione left these to Ernie and disembarked. In the mere five minutes Hermione had been in the Head compartment, the Platform had crowded to a remarkable extent. "Hey, Mudblood, can't wait to see your Potions professor again?" Malfoy hissed in her ear. Draco had developed the ridiculous and rather disgusting idea in the previous year that she was having 'liaisons' with Professor Snape because of all those evenings brewing with him for N.E.W.T. levels. She hated having to ask for his assistance and criticism--the former he was nasty in giving, but with the latter he was all too forthcoming--but the fact remained that there were not many potions brewers in the world at the caliber of Professor Snape. But Malfoy still thought she was shagging him, and the jokes, though crude, were entertaining at times. So she let him. Draco lost his balance as the basket in his hands shifted violently. He swore and stumbled, just barely staying on his feet. Hermione eyed the basket warily; a furious hissing was coming from inside it. Draco shook it roughly in annoyance. Hermione winced. She did not care what was in the basket; Draco had no right to treat it so cruelly. She quickly went through the list in her mind of permitted pets at Hogwarts. The cat or owl or toad was out. The hissing did not seem feline. The only other pets she could think of for which the restriction had been waived was Ron's rat, Lavender's rabbit, and Flora Jones' fruit bat. Draco Malfoy certainly was not supposed to have whatever creature he carried. Sometimes being Head Girl had its advantages. "What is in that basket, Malfoy?" she asked in an authoritative manner that instantly planted a derogatory sneer on his face. "Wouldn't you like to know," he snarled. Hermione snatched the basket from him. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would like to know. That's why I asked. But I'll bet ten to one you've got a Slytherin mascot, and Professor Dumbledore never informed me of it, therefore it's forbidden." "You can't do--," he sputtered indignantly. "I'm Head Girl, Malfoy," Hermione said calmly, pushing her face in front of his. "You're just a prefect. You answer to me, and I answer to the Headmaster. I now intend to confiscate this as the Headmaster ordered." "You can't--" "Watch me!" Hermione turned on her heel. She stopped by to inform Ernie that she was confiscating a creature and that the train was not to leave until she got back from Diagon Alley. The Menagerie would no doubt provide a refuge to it. "Feels like I was just here," Hermione muttered dryly, pushing through the streets in a hurried fashion to the Magical Menagerie. The snake had began practically spitting in fury, and many of the animals protested as she ran in like a whirling dervish in one of the her plain robes--out of habit--hair curling around her face and an irate snake hissing like the very devil in her hands. "Goodness gracious me," said the clerk, "what on earth--" "I need your manager to confiscate . . ." "Just a minute," the clerk stammered, quelling at the prospect of meeting an angry snake. He rushed into the back. Hermione set the basket onto the counter. The snake had settled down somewhat and was now rubbing its scales restlessly against the weave. A sizable man stepped out from behind a curtain, rubbing his hands together. "Well, well, what do we have here?" the man asked. He ran a hand over his bald spot as he examined the basket from a safe distance. "We don't traffic much in snakes, what with the Dark Lord and all, but let's see what you have." "Careful," Hermione warned, "I don't think it's very happy I took it away." The basket shook again. "Looks like a big one." Hermione read his nametag: Conan Fitzgerald, General Manager. A big meaty hand grasped the top of the basket and pulled it off, wary of the sudden thrust of the snake's head. The strike missed and the snake bit down on air. "Feisty one, too. He must be cold; this basket isn't near catering to his needs. Jerry, my hook. "It's been a while since I've looked at a fine serpent specimen, and this one looks as healthy and lively as anything. And handsome, too, took at the gloss of his scales." Hermione had a perfect opportunity to see the slick brown back fading to a mottled cream on the belly as the snake rose menacingly from the basket--the hiss itself was more like a growling really, and it scared her to death--hooded and mouth open. It finally halted at five feet high, almost as tall as Hermione. Both she and Mr. Fitzgerald took a step back. "You confiscated this from a student?" Mr. Fitzgerald asked incredulously. "What we've got here is a beautiful king cobra, doubtlessly wizard bred by its size and the fact he's here instead of Asia. He's got to been a good fifteen feet. Jerry, he's coming out of the basket, I need the hook. Careful, missy." The snake uncoiled, still swaying upright and began slithering from the basket, its eyes determinedly on Hermione. Hermione could not look away; they were odd maroon eyes, glinting with a subtle intelligence. Hermione struggled to stay calm as it neared. "Easy now, milord, we mean no harm," the manager directed to the snake; its ribbing had begun to pull in again, but its mouth remained open and it continued to advance. "Always address a dangerous animal with deference, missy. Maybe you'd better placate it; it's fixed on you." Hermione's eyes were wide and her hands were shaking, her robes in tight fists, but the cobra was within striking distance, so she ventured a timid, "I was only doing my duty, milord. Don't take it out on me." He withdrew only slightly, but continued swaying. "So he's an intelligent one," Mr. Fitzgerald said softly, admiringly. Jerry did not come in, but he slid the hook through the crack of the curtain. Mr. Fitzgerald took it in his hands slowly and carefully. Hermione chanced a look. It was a standard snake hook except it could circle around the entire circumference behind the snake's head when applied. "Okay, easy now, milord, I'm just going to. . ." The snake whipped around, glaring now at the manager, but with a deftness that surprised the snake, the hook came right under the ribs and clamped around tight. The cobra immediately began writhing and hissing in its growling way as though he was being murdered. He stretched to bite, but he could not reach anyone so fettered. The manager pulled him forward and grabbed his tail. "Yes, finely bred indeed," Mr. Fitzgerald said, holding him out for Hermione to see. Hermione took another step backward. The snake's eyes were practically smoldering. "I'd avoid his eyes, missy. The wizard bred ones are more captivating than others." The snake still fought half-heartedly, but if Hermione did not know better, she'd think it was almost smug. "I'd love to know who had this first, missy. These poisonous ones don't come cheap, and I'd reckon that in the wrong hands this serpent would be confiscated by more than Head Girl." "As much as I'd love to divulge the boy's identity, we're sworn to silence about misdemeanors." "Well, it would help, because I can't keep this one, missy. Wizard bred, it ought to go home in private protection. The law won't allow this sort for public enterprise. Sorry, missy, but I can't take it. Beautiful, though," he murmured longingly. "Then where should I take it?" Hermione asked, a tension developing in her stomach as she anticipated the probably worst. "Well, the way I see it, you've got two options--you can turn it in to an Auror, and they'll likely have it put down. Or you can bring it to Hogwarts and have Dumbledore decided. If all else fails, it will probably find a home in the Forbidden Forest."
~c~
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Abyss
Jan 8, 2007 1:32:15 GMT -5
Post by Willow Short on Jan 8, 2007 1:32:15 GMT -5
"But I just confiscated it, sir, I can't very well bring it with me," Hermione protested. "And it's poisonous, how can I--?" "Snake-charming spell, fairly routine," Fitzgerald interrupted. "Think you're up to it? It needs a great deal of power behind it." Hermione did some quick thinking. She wished she could talk to Dumbledore now, but the Express was most likely getting impatient and she did not want the snake to be put to sleep just for being born a serpent, so she sighed and said, "What's the spell?" "Wonderful, missy. They're wonderful familiars, someone is going to love it." "I have a familiar, but he's at home. Please, Mr. Fitzgerald, what is the spell?" He held out the snake and said, "It's 'pareo,' full circle swish. Go on, it's getting restless again." Which was a dramatic understatement. It was practically thrashing its way through the hook, and the manager was nearly losing his tail. "Missy!" the manager urged. Hermione unsheathed her wand and pointed it at the cobra. With a deliberate stroke of her wand, she declared, "Pareo." A flash of green light encircled the snake, then extended out until it enveloped Hermione in its glow. It smelled of vanilla extract. Then it disappeared as though it had never been there. "Well, missy," said the manager, in awe of the limp snake in his clutches, "I've never seen it work like that." "Did it work?" Hermione asked. "Yes, yes, the green light is indicative, but this one must be a powerful familiar. You sure you don't want it? It'll complement you wonderfully." "No, thank you," Hermione replied. "How can you tell he's safe now? What can't he do now?" "Well, until you apply the countercharm, it cannot harm you in any way, it can't leave you, you have full control on how far from you it can be. Unfortunately, there still isn't any way to communicate with it. You don't happen to know a Parselmouth, do you?" he joked. His smile faded when she responded in the affirmative. "Good luck then, missy. Here," he released the hook and the snake slid from the restraint. "Call to it." "Milord," she whispered. "I've a train to catch, so if you could. . ." Obediently, the snake slithered to her and began wrapping itself around her from the legs to her shoulders. Hermione was stiff with fright. "Don't worry, missy, he's just trying to get warm. He'll not harm you." He took out a sheet of parchment and began writing a note permitting her to carry the snake to Hogwarts. "I've some equipment, free of charge, you might like to have, and you need to know its habits." "Could you write those down, too? I am quite frankly sinfully late for the Hogwarts Express, and it's waiting for me." "Of course. I understand completely, missy. Jerry!" he yelled, then whispered the paraphernalia he wanted Jerry to fetch. A few minutes later, Hermione had Apparated back onto the Platform 9 ¾ where Ernie was wringing his hands in worry. When he saw the giant cobra wrapped around Hermione, he gulped and took a step back. "I thought. . . I thought. . ." Ernie stammered. "Not one word, Ernie," Hermione said, thoroughly aggravated by the whole affair. "But. . ." "I have a note, and I'm going straight to Headmaster Dumbledore when we get to Hogwarts. Now please, I have nothing on me, you don't see anything." Ernie raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, Hermione, but the prefects are waiting for a briefing. Do you want me to do it if you're. . . like that? You know. . ." Hermione made to hug Ernie for understanding, but caught herself in time. "I'd appreciate that," she said, brushing her hair from her eyes, very aware of the extra weight she was carrying on her arm. "You go on, Hermione. I'll talk to the front and we'll get started. I hope you know what's going on with that--that. . ." he could not finish, so he just boarded the train. Hermione followed him shortly after, struggling with the case of supplies Mr. Fitzgerald had given her. She opened her compartment Harry and Ron reserved for themselves. "Hermione!" Ron shouted, jumping back at the vision of the snake dropping from her frame and rearing up at Harry, hood open again. Harry scrambled away, hissing furiously at the snake, which caused the growl coming from the cobra to grow louder. "It hates me," said Harry bluntly, still against the wall. Hermione had taken the snake's lower neck and pulled it back. She was muttering to it gently. "Where on earth did it come from?" "I confiscated it from Malfoy. He clearly wanted to poison you in your sleep," Hermione said, only half-sarcastic. "It really doesn't like me, 'Mione," Harry insisted. "It keeps saying. . . well, not really saying, more like a picture of biting me and killing me on the spot. It's not comforting, Hermione. Don't bring it in here!" Hermione tutted and sat as far away from Harry as she could. "Don't worry, Harry, I can keep it from you. Watch." She pulled it around her waist, and it curled closer, taking in her warmth. "I'm not going to keep it or anything." "Hey," said Malfoy from the compartment door, "that's mine." He grabbed for it, but the cobra lunged for him. It was only sheer luck that it hit the door rather than Malfoy himself. Hermione did not have an antidote for the venom readily available. "It obviously does not want you anymore. I'm putting it into the Headmaster's hands, Malfoy. I recommend you return to the prefects' compartment." "My father gave me that," Malfoy said sullenly, now on his guard. "And I'm taking it. Your father should know better." Hermione turned away from the boy, but the cobra kept growing, so Malfoy took advantage of the dismissal and left. "Are you sure about this, 'Mione?" Ron asked, nervous at the way the cobra had suddenly relaxed and slithered more tightly around her. "I'm not going to keep it, Ron," she repeated firmly. "There's no reason for anyone to be concerned at all. Besides, aren't you supposed to be in the prefects' compartment?"
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