||Now It's Just Us||

Chapter 9

She was in a dark room. 

At first, it was hard to make out the surroundings. She rubbed her eyes in hopes to see better. In the dark, cold room, Hermione didn't like the fact that she couldn't see anything. It was disconcerting. Her eyes slowly adjusted, and she narrowed her eyes and peered around herself. She could see dark shapes and outlines.

What was she doing here?

She wasn't supposed to be here.

The maroon couches, the little vase on the centre table filled with dandelions and bright yellow flowers, the familiar picture over the fire, bound in a thick wooden frame. Her own face smiled down at her from it. On her left in the photograph, a raven haired boy with wireframe spectacles grinned widely. On her right, a boy with flaming red hair sported a slightly lopsided grin. The people in the picture couldn't be more than twelve or thirteen years old. They looked carefree, and happy, like children are supposed to look. They didn't look at though they had faced an adult war that they were thrown into. Arthur had taken this picture of them at platform nine and three quarters, with the last remaining film in his camera. She smiled fondly at the picture.

But something wasn't right. She wasn't supposed to be here. The smile faded from her face as she looked around. Beyond the living room window, all she could see was darkness. There was no moon in the sky, no stars, not even a single whispy cloud. It was black. Just black. The fireplace was sooty, and looked as though it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. The flowers in the vase, which had been alive and colourful a few moments ago, were now dead and brown.

"Look at what you've done."

Hermione snapped around. The photograph was gone. She swivelled around again, and the couches were ripped, there were dark stains on the carpet. Her heart started beating frantically, wanting escape. She needed to get out of here.

"Look how you've left me, 'Mione."

Hermione whimpered and ran to the front door. She desperately tried to grasp the doorknob, but she couldn't hold it, turning it seemed far from question. Her hands were slippery and oily. 

"You know you were wrong."

Hermione kicked the door. It didn't budge. The darkness outside was trying to suffocate her, pressing down on her. She wanted to see light. She needed light. 

Only, there was no light. Nobody came to her with a light.

"It was your fault Hermione."

"No," she had meant for her voice to come out as a growl. It came out as a whisper instead.

"You could have saved Fred, you were right there."

"You were right there too!" Hermione shrieked, looking around for the source of his voice. But she couldn't see him. Her skin erupted in goose flesh.

"You weren't there for me when I needed it."

"No, no, I was, I swear," Hermione cried, starting to run around the room in search of an escape, or to find where he was speaking from. Somehow hearing a disembodied voice was worse than seeing him actually standing in front of her.

"Maybe if you were good enough," his voice sneered, "we'd still be together. But you are not good enough."

"You're wrong!" Hermione covered her ears in her desperation, tears streaming down her face, "You're wrong!"

"Look at what you've done," he continued, "there's blood on your hands."

A loud ringing filled the air, and she covered her ears over more and sank to the floor. A pair of shoes appeared on the floor in front of her. She'd recognise those shoes anywhere.