Change

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the effin\' computer I composed this on and my twisted brain that came up with the idea. Monty Python Holy Grail-esque bunny of the plot variety. Don\'t kill me. I am aware that I need therapy. Review, please.


The chatter of thousands of students filled the Great Hall as usual. Boisterous laughter and ribaldry came from the Gryffindor table; more subdued and intellectual musings from the Ravenclaws; soft chuckling and good natured encouragement at the table of the Hufflepuffs; and, of course, sly whispers and bold lies by the Slytherins. Some of the students were not yet awake, and would remain in a fugue state until the second class of the day. Others, like Hermione Granger, had been wide awake and all a-tingle with the prospect of the new things to learn. The first years started at the sound of rushing wings that heralded the arrival of the owl post.
The Daily Prophet was received, as usual, with aplomb by Hermione and barely a lag to the conversation (an in-depth discussion on whether or not the DADA teacher would be competent this year). What was unusual about this day was the small, rectangular package that she received. A card with calligraphy of exceptional beauty simply stated, “Hermione,” and perched atop the package. Hermione, inquisitive as usual, cautiously untied the ribbon binding the box closed and lifted the lid. Gasping in horror, she dropped the box, its cargo rolling out to lie amongst the kippers. There the severed finger lay, pale and unobtrusive on the edge of a golden platter. A shriek rang out followed by an exclamation; “My mother’s wedding ring!”

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I wore my mother’s high heeled shoes and my grandmother’s pearls. Mummy laughed at me and kissed the top of my head. A gleam caught my eye as she tried to take my hand and I caught her ring finger in my tiny fist. That ring on her left hand called to me in little rainbows and has stayed in my mind forever. That’s how I remembered it when I saw it on the same finger I grasped when I was four years old. Only now, the situation was so different. Not happiness, not safety, but the horrendous destruction of both. That finger, lying so far away from its owner in the breakfast food at Hogwarts. My mother’s wedding ring still on her finger. I ran.

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Hermione ran wildly out of the Great Hall, out of the Entrance Doors, out onto the long road from Hogwarts and past the gates. Panting, she struggled for oxygen and focused on her mind’s eye view of her home in the suburbs of London. With a loud crack that sounded like the air around lightning, Hermione was home. She raced into the house, barely even registering that the front door hung open, and paused at the bottom of the stairs. Ohgodohgodohgod, she thought, spying a spot of crimson on the new beige carpet. The phrase of disbelief repeated in her head as she took the stairs two at a time, each new stain of blood provoking a refrain of please, no, don’t let this be happening, don’t let my suspicions be true. She followed the trail to the door of the master bedroom, not wanting to go in and find what she feared the most, but unable to stop her feet from carrying her there. Then, something happened that had never happened before: her mind shut off.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger lay on the bed in a stiff, artificial embrace. Blood spattered the walls and the tattered petals of black roses were strewn upon the floor. Hermione walked over to the bed in a trance and pulled them apart. Their hearts were exposed in their chests and their daughter’s name was carved upon that muscled surface. Their eyelids were sliced off and their mouths ripped open from ear to ear. A fly crawled across her father’s neck.

Hermione heard the step of her parent’s murderer and leapt in the direction of the sound. A wordless roar raged from her throat as her fingers turned to claws and her pain became his pain. Neck to groin was split open and she pulled his ribs apart with a visceral crack. She tore out his heart and rent it with her teeth, the hot sweetness of the blood on her tongue bringing her mind back from its stupor. She couldn’t think in words yet. Horror overcame her and she screamed again, not the voice of a lion going in for the kill this time, but of a wounded child. Blood belonging to her enemy covered her hands and face and she stared at his platinum blond hair streaming across the carpet. He looked even more pale in death, though she had not thought it possible. Lucius Malfoy was dead by her hand, and her parents were dead by his. Hermione crawled into a corner and was sick, the vomit tinged red. She curled up in a fetal position next to a pool of stomach acid and wept for her mother, father and herself. Nothing would be the same.