Chapter Text
Click.
Click.
Click.
The corridor was vacant, eerily silent but for the click of her heels. On second thought, “vacant” wasn’t the right word. It was scattered with scraps of clothing drenched in red. The muffler she’d given Ron last Christmas. The once-white hand-knitted wool socks Ginny had on only yesterday. Still on her feet, technically, but the more Hermione considered that, the more likely she was to vomit. Again. She wondered if it was Harry’s blood painted on the walls there with looping streaks of scarlet. Enemies of the heir, beware. She hoped he’d managed to escape, but the chances were slim in this hellscape.
The corridor was not vacant, no. But it was devoid of life. Click, click, click. Another reminder that her time was running out.
She slipped off her shoes and carefully placed them pointing in the direction she’d come from. Worth a try.
Careful not to step in any of the gore littering the polished wood floors. She hopped across to try a nearby door, and sighed with relief when it opened.
The six of them had gone to the abandoned Riddle House together only this evening, the moment they’d received that video from Sirius, begging for help. She regretted that her last words to Harry may have been, “I told you it was a trap.”
What she should have said instead was, “Run.” Had she, she might not have the image of a massive knife protruding from Luna’s chest burned into her retinas. Resting affectionately on Luna’s shoulder was the gaping black mouth and hollow eyes of a long, white mask. The face of a ghost looking right into Hermione’s soul as she stood frozen in place.
She shook away the image. It was too late now, anyway. She couldn’t bring them back. All she could do now was survive.
She tiptoed to the window and peered hopelessly down to the ground below. A second-floor leap might break her ankle, but adrenaline might make up for it. Then again, she remembered the unhurried strut of the killer, his long legs nimbly stepping over Neville’s body. She wouldn’t outrun him like that.
A piercing ring shattered the tense silence. Hermione shrieked in surprise, whirling around to find the source of the noise. An antique phone shuddered on the desk, crying out for her to answer.
He knew she was there.
The ringing continued, and she hesitantly approached the phone. What choice did she have, when he could be right outside that door? She liberated the handset from its cradle and put it to her ear.
“Hello?” she winced as the word cracked, her throat tight with fear.
“Now, Hermione,” the familiar, pleasant voice chided, sending chills down her spine. “You’re too clever a girl to think that would work.”
“Won’t stop me from trying,” she snapped, unsure if he was referring to her shoes, or her wistful glance out the window.
“I’ve always liked that about you, you know,” he laughed. “Always keeping me on my toes.”
She scanned the room for another way out. Nothing.
“Why me?” she asked, ripping open the desk drawers, fumbling for some sort of weapon.
“At first, you looked like an easy target,” he explained. She imagined him leisurely examining his knife, the way he did when he pulled it from Ron’s forehead. She tugged out the next drawer.
“Sorry to have disappointed you.” A stack of envelopes, a sheet of stamps… her hand closed around the comforting coolness of a letter opener.
“On the contrary, it was a pleasant surprise. Me? Outsmarted by a slip of a girl like you?”
“You think highly of yourself,” she murmured, relieved tears springing to her eyes at the feeling of metal on her palm.
“Not once, or twice. Seven times, Hermione. That’s my favorite number, did you know?” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, as he often did when he called. Was this already the seventh time? No wonder fight or flight mode came so naturally now.
“Fascinating,” she mumbled distractedly. Letter opener in one hand, phone in the other, she edged her way toward the door. She could keep him occupied, then make a break for it. “Any other personal stories to share? Perhaps the root of your mommy issues?”
He was silent for a long moment. “Cruel of you to rub that in. Here I thought we could be friends.”
She laughed, and it sounded maniacal, even to her own ears. She clamped a hand over the doorknob. “Over my dead body.”
She threw the phone down and ripped open the door in one swift motion. Unsurprisingly, there he was in all his black-clad glory, looming over her in the door frame. He lifted the phone from his ear and waved it at her teasingly.
“There will be plenty of time for that later,” the mask assured her, muffled voice smug as could be.
Until she drove the letter opener into one of those blood-spattered black eyes with a resounding crack and a guttural grunt of pain.
She shoved him aside and bolted down the corridor, bare feet skidding across the blood. She barely registered the dismembered pieces of her friends as she stumbled over them down the steps, the front door just within her reach.
She grasped it and pulled, releasing a cry of frustration when she found it locked. She fumbled with the bolt and pulled again, stumbling back when it swung open and revealed the haunting landscape of an overgrown garden bathed in moonlight, the gate looking so far away.
Against her better judgment, she cast one last glance toward the top of the staircase. There he stood, shrouded in black, but finally that horrific mask had shattered. A deep cut above his eyebrow gushed fresh blood down one side of his face, much to her satisfaction. The other was clean and almost more terrifying in its perfection. Dark eyes, wild with rage, otherwise-fetching dimples framing full lips, pulled back in a striking, feral grin.
She lost valuable seconds staring incredulously at the distorted face of Tom Riddle, her college classmate. Her mind reeled over the disconnect between his polite persona and this insane caricature.
But then, she ran.
There was nowhere to hide in the lawns. Adrenaline pushed her past her limits until she could no longer feel the burn of the cold autumn air in her lungs. She was nearly there, her car was just outside that gate and then she—
An iron grip jerked her off balance, and she tumbled unceremoniously to the grass. The solid weight of a body pressed her to the ground and the scent of leather and sandalwood overpowered her. She thrashed against him, knowing it was no use, but refusing to give in.
“No!” she screamed, attempting to pull her arms from where he’d pinned them at her sides with his knees.
“Just a minute, let me get settled first,” he sighed dramatically, and his playful tone crept into her veins and icy terror stopped her heart. She stared up at him, eyes wide, flinching as droplets of his blood fell onto her cheek.
He wiped it off tenderly, his thumb lingering on her cheek while the other slid the hilt of the knife up along her shoulder.
The point of his knife pricked her throat so delicately she barely noticed it pierce the skin. The steel was cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his tongue as he licked the trickle of blood that seeped out.
“Alright. Go on, love. Scream for me.”
Incredible illustration by AKAnothere.