Forsaken’s Miracle

The city was terrifying: dark, faceless, obsidian black buildings reached upwards seemingly forever into the low-flying clouds, towering over the smaller structures below. Only few buildings had been spared when these dark giants were built, left for the use of those who owned small, dying businesses and were still too proud to fail.

A young woman sat on the thirtieth floor of one of the giant, frightening structures, pressing her forehead against the cool window while tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Is that what you wanted, Hermione?" a cold voice asked her, a voice all too familiar. "I told you, never, ever, try to outsmart me." He finished his sentence calmly, with a sarcastic smirk painted on his face.

Hermione turned her head slowly, and looked up at him in disgust. Jonathan merely smiled at her before walking out of the room and closing the door behind him. Hermione closed her eyes, turning back to the window. The cold feeling of glass pressed against her bruised forehead kept the swelling at bay. "I hate you," she whispered angrily. Her voice was ragged, like a shard of glass piercing the silence and drawing blood. Hermione did hate him: her very own husband. Jonathan was cold and cruel, one of the Powers. This isn't the life I wanted, she thought to herself, her eyes wandering lazily around the well-furnished apartment. I hate this! She felt herself scream silently, her thoughts filled with anger and self-pity. Hermione closed her eyes slowly, remembering.

...Her feet pounded heavily on the damp sidewalk, her footsteps ricocheting off the walls of crumbled buildings.
If only they'd leave her alone—heavy hands grasped her from the back. She writhed furiously, trying to get away.
"I really don't want to do this," a voice said from behind her.
"Then don't," she said, turning around, her brown eyes pleading. "Please, Ron. Don't."
He looked at her. "Hermione, think of what Harry would say—"
She shook her head, cutting him off. "No, this isn't about Harry. This is about you."
"Hermione you're one of the Revered. Please, think of the people you'd save—"
"At the sake of what? My freedom? What a fair trade, Ron," she said spitefully. "I thought we were friends."
"Hermione, you're one of the few Revered we've found. Please, it'll all be over," Ron said, taking her arm. "Let's go."
"Where? To some testing lab where I can pump out babies like some machine? Where I can be cut off from everything I love?" Hermione turned around. "No, please. Let me go..."
"It's not like that," he told her, defending the Powers. "They wouldn't do that to you, you have a choice. As for the baby thing, you're one of the only people who can do that, after the Plague."
She looked at him closely. "Alright," she said softly after a while, taking his hand.

Hermione forced her eyelids open savagely, shoving unwanted memories to the back of her mind. Hot tears pricked her eyelids nonetheless. This was too much. Hermione stood up abruptly, the action making her slightly dizzy, but she didn't mind. She flung open the door and ran downstairs as fast as she could, looking behind her for Watchmen. Hermione reached the front porch, and stepped outside, the cold rain seeped through the thick wool of her cardigan and the autumn gale picked up the folds of her skirt and whipped them around her legs, but she hardly noticed. She ran blindly through the storm, now feeling completely numb. So this was it. Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out a razor. It was small and rectangular, gleaming dully as it reflected the light of the hidden sun. Hermione trembled slightly as she yanked up the sopping sleeves of her cardigan. No more mistakes this time, she told herself firmly as she caught a glimpse of the small, red scars that crisscrossed the pale skin of her forearm. Hermione held the sliver of metal close to her wrist and shut her eyes. It was going to be over. Finall—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said from behind her.