Harmione One Shots

| The Locket pt. 2

Days bled into a feverish blur for Hermione. Fatigue, a relentless tide, washed over her, stealing her energy and replacing it with a gnawing dread. Sleep offered no solace, only nightmares that left her gasping for air, the taste of iron clinging to her tongue. In her dreams, a golden thread tightened around her throat, constricting her breath, while a tiny hand of an infant reached out in a desperate, futile grasp.

Hermione jolted awake, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo in the stillness of the night. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead, and her breath came in ragged gasps. A sliver of moonlight peeked through the curtains, illuminating the terrified look etched on her face.

"Hermione?" A familiar, sleep-thick voice broke through the fog of terror. Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her close to a warm, solid form. Harry.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice trembling, the dream's vividness clinging to her like a shroud.

He pulled her in tighter, feeling the tremors racking her body. He knew this fear, this terror that lurked in the shadows of her dreams. It was something he was once plagued with constantly.

Despite the nightmares and Hermiones weakening state, the weight of the locket in her pocket grew heavier with every passing hour. She knew she had to tell Harry, to share the burden of the prophecy and the terrifying promise of the locket. But the fear of his worry, the potential for crushing disappointment, kept her lips sealed.

Harry, ever perceptive, noticed the shift in her. Gone was the fiery Hermione, replaced by a pale shadow seemingly haunted. The light in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by a dull ache that mirrored the deepening circles beneath them. His questions, met with forced smiles and weak assurances, only deepened his unease.

It was two weeks after Hermione had found, or maybe been given the locket, that Harry found her crumpled on the living room floor, gasping for breath as he came home from work.

Panic surged through him as he knelt at her side, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Hermione!" he cried, his voice thick with worry.

Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing a flicker of fear before they fluttered shut again. Alarmed, Harry scooped her into his arms and raced to the door, his every instinct screaming that something was terribly wrong

"We're going to Madam Pomfrey," he declared, ignoring her weak protest. "Something is terribly wrong, Hermione." He spoke out loud with fear. He looked at Hermione in his arms, her body dangling lifelessly.

The visit to the renowned healer at Hogwarts was a whirlwind of frantic questions and hushed pronouncements. The diagnosis, when it came, landed with the weight of a mountain: Hermione was under a powerful life-draining curse, one inextricably linked to a magical object she possessed.

Harry looked at her taking in these diagnoses. "How was this possible?" he thought internally. Grabbing Hermione's weak hand in his he stopped, his hand brushing against the locket nestled in her pocket. Reaching into her pocket he slowly removed it.

Madam Pomfrey's face, etched with concern, turned pale as she examined the locket.

Harry's breath hitched. "Is there a cure?" he rasped, his voice hoarse with apprehension.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head sadly. "The curse is complex, Mr. Potter. Breaking it will be difficult, and... dangerous."

Then, a revelation struck her. Her eyes widened as she placed a hand on Hermione's stomach. "But... but there's something else, Mr. Potter. A faint magical signature... you see, Hermione is..."