can our paths cross (again)?
It’s too sunny out , she thinks miserably as the pain on her back fades into a stinging ache when she stretches.
It's too bright and nice for such a horrible day and Hermione can’t help but let her mind wander to the night before, where she’d acted like a little girl with a crush.
She flushes. “That was stupid of me,” she whispers to herself as she tries to get ready, flinching when a few stray curls get caught in her brush. She can’t help the disgust bubbling up her throat at the idea of dressing up nicely only to be herded in like sheep for slaughter. “I’ve never even seen him around before.”
Before she knows it, the bells ring twice, the signal for everyone to get out and start lining up. She tries to stall, twisting her hair into a bun and rubbing the dirt off her worn shoes before she hears loud knocking outside her door.
”Line up,” The gruff voice says when she finally opens it, and she shivers when she feels his eyes linger on her. “And don’t think I don’t know what you were doing last night.”
Hermione tries not to let the vice grip of fear take over as she tumbles out, blinking rapidly once the glare of the sun hits her full force.
She follows the older girls and takes her spot in the line, ignoring the whispers.
“Happy it’s your last reaping, Granger?” A voice spits out and she turns, locking eyes with the mayor's daughter, Miranda. “Think you’re too smart and good to be picked, don’t you?”
Her dull red hair is tied neatly in a braid, and Hermione can’t help but think back to her boy. His hair was more orange, and glowed brightly, and she wishes she’d asked for his name back then.
Miranda giggles meanly, the group of girls surrounding her echoing her sentiments. “Actually, I don’t think that way. But if that helps you sleep better at night, Miranda, then you can be my guest and think up whatever opinions you want.”
The redhead flushes. “It’s Mirabel ,” she grits out, anger flashing in her eyes. She can’t do anything, not with all the death eaters flocking the place so she settles for a smile, voice dripping with hatred. “Well, you’re not quite off the hook yet, are you? The reapings aren’t over. Who knows? You might just be lucky enough to get chosen.”
Hermione feels her heart pounding in her ears and she turns around, brushing past the group to the front.
“Hold out your hand,” the mediwitch sitting behind the table says to her, nodding towards the goblet full of water.
She hears her pull out her wand and whisper a quiet “ Sectumsempra ,” before she feels a prick at her index finger. The brunette lets the blood flow into the cup, her eyes wandering over to the self writing quill. She gazes at the words appearing on the paper, detailing her identity.
Hermione Jean Granger
Sex: Female
Age: 18
Date of Birth: July 31 1980
Status: Muggleborn
The mediwitch raises her eyebrow at the last line, face turning colder. “A mudblood? I haven’t seen one this old in a while now. How’d you do it, girl? How’d you escape being reaped?”
Hermione keeps her mouth shut, and the mediwitch huffs irritably, dismissing her. She throws the paper into the air, turning towards the next person. The brunette steps down, watching as the paper flies towards the center of the stadium before finally landing in the Goblet.
She wrenches her eyes away, heading towards the bigger group before the guard sanctioned near the mediwitch drags her away
That doesn’t stop her from stealing a glance over at the line of boys, trying to find him before she’s pushed by one of the girls. “Hurry up,” she hears her hiss and quickens her pace, ignoring the pang of disappointment in her heart.
“I can always look for him later,” she mutters, holding her head high. It’s getting hotter and she can feel the sweat piling up on the crook of her neck. She’s barely had anything to eat.
Unless he gets picked to be a champion, her mind whispers traitorously and she crushes that thought before it can take root.
The bells ring three times and the crowd gets even quieter. Her heart jumps in her throat and she tries to reassure herself that nothing will happen. This is it, Hermione. Your last reaping before you’re finally free of this wretched game . But she knows she’ll never be free, not with the fear of hunger and death always looming over her.
Her heart beats in her ears. It’s so loud she worries that everyone can hear, but she dismisses the thought as soon as it comes. There’s barely any sound, everyone holding their breaths as they wait for the tributes to be picked.
Hermione hates it. She hates the camera at the front, capturing everything for the purebloods to see, and she hates the twisted fact that she hopes someone else is called up instead of her and her boy.
She stands there, stray curls clinging to her face as sweat drips down her neck. Her face feels hot, the sun's rays beating down on her, and she feels the dress stick to the still healing wound on her back. It itches and Hermione pinches her thigh, shoving down the urge to run away.
Before she can fall even deeper into her thoughts a sickening sweet voice introduces herself as Dolores Umbridge, the head secretary overseeing the reapings.
“The Ministry of Magic,” she declares, covered head to toe in pink. “Has always considered tradition to be of vital importance. After all, it is tradition that has managed to guarantee the survival of us purebred wizards and witches.”
Hermione tries not to retch. “Of course,” Umbridge continues, hands crossed in front of her. “Without progress, there will be stagnation and decay. So for this year's Triwizard Tournament, the champions ,” The brunette hears the disgust in her voice as she says the word champions, her smile twitching as she “ Hem, hems, ” before continuing her speech. “Will be given one chance to volunteer someone else in their place.”
She feels her heart pounding as the crowd starts muttering and whispering. She doesn’t look around.
“I will have order!” she barks out, pleased when it’s finally quiet. She walks over to the goblet, tapping her wand against it. Two names fly out and into the toad like women's hands.
A halfblood, by the name of Dean Thomas gets called out. She watches him grit his teeth as he looks around, mouth set in a grim line. Umbridge watches with a sick sense of humor. “Well, aren’t you going to volunteer someone?” She asks, and Hermione tries to ignore the curiosity swelling up inside of her. “No,” Dean says tightly as he’s escorted towards the front of the stage. “I won’t.”
“Let us move forward then,” Umbridge clears her throat in disappointment as she looks at the other piece of paper in her hand. “Our last champion, Mirabel Collin! How exciting, that two half bloods have been chosen to represent you all.”
It happens in slow motion. Hermione feels it before she hears it. “I’d like to volunteer someone!” Mirabel all but shrieks out in panic. “Hermione Granger! The one over there!”
“Ms. Collin, are you quite sure of this?” Umbridge asks, but no one can deny the glee in her eyes as she watches the crowd once again break into whispers.
“Yes! I want her to take my place,” she says quickly, resentment clear in her tone as she narrows her eyes. “She doesn’t have anyone who’ll miss her anyways.”
Umbridge smiles walking back towards the goblet after lighting the paper in her hands on fire. Hermione watches in sick fascination as it burns to ash and another one is picked out.
She turns to face the crowd once again. “It seems we have a volunteer! The female tribute for the 50th Triwizard Tournament is…a mudblood…” She trails off, eyebrows raised. “And this is her last reaping? How lucky you must feel then, Ms. Granger, to have the honor to represent your town!”
Hermione feels the eyes looking upon her, assessing her mockingly.
Muggleborn, the crowd whispers, growing louder and louder. That- It’s the- Granger girl- How awful. She hears bits and pieces and blood rushes to her face.
She tries desperately to catch Mirabel’s eyes, but she's pushed towards the front of the stage before catching sight of something else.
Something more important.
Her boy, and she doesn’t even know when she’s started viewing him as hers, the one from last night, is there with his red hair and blue eyes.
He’s standing beside another redhead, one much taller with a scar running across his face watching her. His face has turned pale, and he tries to reach out to her before the older one blocks him. He’s arguing, face pulling into a grimace as he’s shoved back.
But that’s not what makes her stop in her tracks.
No, the thing that makes her stop is the fact that he’s not in the crowd, but standing on the stage. The one where the people responsible for the security measures, for the runes littered across the boundary of this town, are supposed to be. The stage that only purebloods from the Capital have access to.
Umbridge hems loudly, breaking her out of her trance. “We don’t have all day, Ms. Granger. Come up to the stage.”
Hermione tears her eyes away from him.