Forever Young

"Prayer: the last refuge of the scoundrel." ~ Lisa Simpson

Hermione felt herself wake up, her eyes fluttering open, staring around the room blearily. She felt Crookshanks on her stomach, curled into a ball, purring in his sleep. It was so strange. She hadn't woken up naturally in almost eight months. The alarm clock had been stored under her bed, unplugged and tied up in the cord so that there was absolutely no way that it could go off. But for some reason, she felt as though she was wrong for doing it.

Crookshanks woke when he felt Hermione breathing and jumped off the bed. Hermione slid out from under the covers and dangled her feet over the side of the bed. She felt relaxed, but for some reason he was restless. What was she forgetting? It wasn't striking a match. There was something that she wasn't doing, but she could not remember what it was. The thing that bothered her the most was that it seemed important; she couldn't shake it off

It was the first day of her vacation. She was so happy with herself for taking it because she enjoyed the feel of knowing she had no plans. No worries. No brats to stress on about all day. With a smile bright smile on her face that she could barely fight, she sighed and fell backwards onto the bed, stretching herself luxuriously against the cool covers.

"Finally, finally, finally . . ." she chanted softly, her toes curling and her arms snaking over her head.

Getting washed and dressed for the day, she headed downstairs into her kitchen, and couldn't help but notice the little unidentified something floating around in her head was still irking her. Even as she tried to push it out of her head, it worried her more. Something was seriously bothering her.

She sat down at her table, staring into space as she though of what was wrong. It was about ten in the morning. Perhaps Ginny would know.

Ginny wasn't picking up. Neither was Ron or anyone. She was about to call Harry, when something struck a bell. This is about Harry.

And then it hit her. Her stomach felt as though it had exploded and her heart constricted. She grabbed for her wand and aimed it sharply at the television, that was set to wizarding channels, and, just as she feared, on came the whirring blurs of navy-blue, and saw a distinct head of messy, raven hair.

She'd completely forgotten the Cup.

She Apparated on the spot, arriving in the front of the Arena, staring around wildly for the entrance, her hair falling in her face as she sprinted passed the twenty-foot golden gates in the front of the building and to the side of the brick complex. Winston, the eight-foot, three hundred-pound black security guard at the player's gate, was standing in front with his arms folded across his chest, and the moment he saw her, he grinned.

"Evening, Miss Granger," he said in his slow, deep voice as she approached.

"Evening, Winston. Can I go in?"

"Awful late to arrive though, isn't it? The match started nearly half an hour ago. Mr. Potter was going out of his mind waiting for you."

Hermione put her hands to her head and closed her eyes tightly, muttering "Damn, damn, damn . . ." while Winston gave her a strange look. "Miss Granger, are you alright?"

She regained herself, dropping her hands and sighing heavily. "Yes, I'm fine. I slept in and only just headed downstairs when I remembered. I completely forgot about the match." She broke off and groaned, "Was he that worried?"

"Does pacing back and forth count as worried, Miss Granger? Or the fact that he didn't want to go on the field until you arrived and was almost dragged out onto the pitch by the other players? If not, than he wasn't too worried."

"Thank you very much, Winston. Much appreciated." Biting her lip, she realized she could care about how mad Harry was going to be with her later, and added, "Now can I go in? I'm hoping to catch the end or at least when he catches the Snitch."

Winston grinned again. "You always know he's going to catch it, don't you."

It wasn't a question, more of a statement. For the first time that day, she grinned back. "Of course. He always does. And I don't need to be his best friend to know he'll do it again." A sudden stab of fear rose in her throat. "Oh hang it all! Winston, let me in," she said without caring how forward she sounded. Winston nodded and dragged open the gate, which she sprinted through, not caring how high up her skirt rose as she ran down the long corridor with the sound of the fan's screaming, shrill and consistent, in her ears above her.

Finally, near the end, she saw the door with the sign that read Puddlemere United Players Only, and burst through it into the locker room, panting from running. There were no players inside, and since she hadn't yet been blown away by a sudden blast of cheering or a loud sweeping wave of groans and booing she knew the game hadn't ended yet. So she strode across to stand at the window, where all she could see was an ocean of navy-blue fans. Puddlemere had the best Quidditch stadium of every team in the world. Everything was the Puddlemere United colors, blue and gold. What she liked best is, at times like this, being allowed into the locker room meant not having to climb through fans to get seats, as the locker room was level with where the players were flying. There was this great glass window that stretched across an entire wall and was unbreakable, so that if players accidentally flew into it, it wouldn't shatter and cut them to ribbons, or worse, kill her from being hit by a player at over 120 mph because she was standing at the window.

The score, she saw all the way across the pitch, was lit up on the advertisement board: 160-180 Arrows. Puddlemere was down by twenty and needed to score. As she watched, her forehead had unconsciously starting to press against the glass and her nose was getting smushed. Over the years she had grown quite a liking for Quidditch. Even though she never had a thing for sports. It was quite liberating. Everything rushing past you, seeing the Quaffle zigzag from one player to another faster than your eyes could move, and the best, the rush of watching your Seeker speed up and grab the Snitch in the most difficult of ways and your screaming getting lost in the tidal wave of noise and since it's your best friend in the world you want to cry because it's such a fabulous moment. All in all, she liked it. But she would never ever even get close to a broomstick. It scared the living daylights out of her just watching Harry up there, but she knew in the depths of her mind that he couldn't fall. He was voted Witch Broomstick's Quidditch's Best Flier along with Most Skilled Seeker.

Her eyes began to scan the skies for Harry and spotted him flying way over the action, decked in his immaculate navy-blue robes with the two crossed golden bulrushes, staring around for the Snitch.

"Come on, Harry," she murmured, crossing her fingers, her eyes never leaving him. "Come on, you can do it. Find it. Find it."

And then, as if he had heard her, he obeyed her wishes and stopped dead, staring in one single spot near the ground of the Arrow's end. The crowd began to get a bit louder. The wizarding world all knew this gesture as the famous "Potter Glare." Slowly, he began to turn his broom around to face the direction he was staring in, slowly bent down, and Hermione's heart began to pound.

This is it, he's got it, she thought excitedly.

Sure enough, at that moment, he reared back, and kicked the broom into life, blazing into a dive that made her heart stop. He was going so fast she was afraid he might catch fire. One of his arms reached forward, fingers out-stretched as he got closer and closer to his target. The crowd was going wild.

But he was about four feet from the Snitch when it shot upward.

He was too close to the ground.

He couldn't turn the broom upward because it would be too late. He would crash. A Firebolt F81's breaks were good, but not that good.

Harry seemed to notice, because the second he had looked upward at the Snitch, he was already on his feet on the broom handle and had leapt off to ear-shattering screams from the stands--the loudest coming from Hermione--and caught the Snitch.

He had corkscrewed in the air and landed on his back in the sand where the golden posts were, his hand still clutching the Snitch. He wasn't moving.

"HARRY!" Hermione shrieked, her hands pressed into the glass and her throat tight, watching for any movement. The crowd was deadly still. All the players had stopped in mid-play to look. Everything was silent.

Everything, until Harry's hand, holding the struggling Snitch, rose into the air above him. "We win!" he shouted, still laying on his back.

The crowd paused, and then the noise level was back on, ten times louder. Hermione began to jump up and down, clapping shrieking at the top of her lungs, forgetting all her dignity as the crowd cheered in the name of Harry Potter. Her hair was in a state of disarray, her skirt was flying all over everywhere, and her face was scarlet, but she didn't care. Anyone whose spirits weren't soaring through the air in ecstasy and who could still think would be laughing at the Arrow's Seeker, who had been totally on the other side of the pitch and had not even paid attention to the more than obvious screams from the crowd when Harry was going for the Snitch. He had landed on the ground only to get his lights knocked out by the Keeper who had concussed him with his broom when he landed next to him.

Navy and gold confetti began to stream down onto the arena from an unknown source as Harry rose to his feet, waving to the crowd with the fisted Snitch. The players flew down to the ground and hopped off their brooms unsteadily, stumbling forward deliriously and leaping forward to plow Harry back down onto his back, laughing, and some crying with joy. The score was 310-180. Puddlemere had won the Cup.

Hermione watched with tears streaming from her eyes as Harry was hoisted on the shoulders of his teammates. He was laughing, she was crying, her hands clutching her mouth. She knew this had to be one of the happiest moments of his life.

She was running to the door, hoping to get into the entranceway of the Arena to meet Harry on his way back to greet him and congratulate him when suddenly, the door opened. His fiery red hair gave him away.

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed, a grin still scrunching her nose. "What're you doing here?"

He hurried forward and grabbed her arm, talking a mile a minute. "I saw you in the window and came to get you. Genevieve and I were saving you a box seat. Where were you? I figured after an hour or so that you weren't showing and I was about to Apparate to your house to make sure you weren't dead or anything. . . ."

She waved it off as he pulled her back out into the corridor and let go as they began to sprint down it. "I only just woke up! I wasn't even thinking! My clock . . . didn't go off and when I finally realized what day it was . . ."

"Ginny said you were upset yesterday about school or something. She said it might have set you off again today." He chanced a squinted glance at her. "And about the other day, you never did tell me . . . was it Marko?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, Jeremy."

"What'd he do now?"

She snorted. "Guess."

"Well, obviously something bad if it bothered you that much."

"Bad hardly describes it Ron. He grabbed my bum."

Ron laughed. Hermione smacked his arm hard. "It's not funny! He's my student! I was walking down the hallway and when I turned the corner he was waiting and just reached out!" She took a moment to catch her breath as they stopped in front of a door, halting to relax. Hermione continued, hands on her hips. "You know, school isn't the way it's supposed to be anymore. Kids could care less about grades and respect. I mean, school isn't a club or something like that. You don't just hit on a teacher like school is some sort of party and she's just some piece of ass to take advantage of."

Ron shrugged, panting. "What can I say? They're guys. And you're not exactly McGonagall if I do say so myself."

Hermione growled in confusion. "Why does everyone keep on saying that?"

Ron grabbed the handles of the double doors. "Later." And he pushed hard on the doors, flinging them open. Hermione could swear some sort of explosion had occurred. The fans were waiting along a roped-off path leading to the door from the pitch, screaming and clawing to grab the hands and robes of the navy-blue Quidditch team strolling giddily up the path towards the doors. Hermione grinned, watching as Harry tried to shake as many hands as he possibly could. Photographs were flashing everywhere and reporters were trying to get words out of them. Harry tried to fill the needs of everybody, but his team was pulling him along.

"Let's go, Potter," Darren Green was laughing, taking Harry by the shoulders and pulling him towards the doors.

"Lay off, Green. Can't you see I'm busy?" Harry joked, though all of the fans in front of him screaming their heads off were women wearing Puddlemere scarves and t-shirts. He had lipstick smudges all over his face from the girls pulling him close enough to kiss his face and then nearly fainting. Hermione knew he didn't take anything too personally. He just loved seeing so many people excited to see him because he was doing something he loved doing and was good at it.

Harry continued to wave at the cameras until he laid eyes on Hermione, who was patiently waiting for him to come over. His entire face lit up into his genuine goofy grin and he pushed past team members and smothered her in a giant hug, in which she gave into happily, flinging her arms around his neck.

"Where were you?" he said, trying and failing to be concerned as he continued to smile and laugh. "I was waiting for you!"

"I know, I'm sorry. I slept in."

Harry pulled back and grabbed her hand. "C'mon, let's talk in the locker room. Did you see my grab?"

"Of course I saw your grab! I almost fainted I was so petrified!"

He gave her a mock stern look. "What? You didn't think I'd get it?"

"No, I knew you were going to get it. From the Glare on I knew you had the Snitch. I was just afraid the cleaning crew would have to wipe you off the field when you dove. But don't get me wrong!" she added quickly, the rest of the team walking heavily behind her, carrying their Firebolts and laughing with one another. She was easily the smallest person in the corridor. "You were amazing out there. That dive, wow, I wish I had my Omnioculars with me so I could see it again. You looked like an eagle or something! And your arm was outstretched and then you twisted around . . ."

Harry was all grins as she ranted on about his spectacular grab. He opened the locker room door and let her in first, their fingers still laced as she stood to the side, letting the rest of the team inside, each member giving a little wave to Hermione as they laughed and messed around, delirious with happiness. Sandler Flurry, head Chaser on the team, did a double take when he saw Hermione in the room. He grinned.

"Well, well, well! Lady in the locker room. Can't say it won't be an experience . . ."

Hermione blushed furiously and Harry laughed, punching Sandler in the arm. "Sod off. She's not bothering you, pig boy."

"No, really, Harry, this is a men's locker room. I'm not sure --"

Hermione cut him off. "Nothing I haven't seen, honestly." She looked jestingly at Harry, but she was startled to see him staring at her, a frown on his face as he seemed to be thinking hard.

"Well . . ." he said quietly, "perhaps you should go and wait for me."

"What?" Hermione frowned back at him. Did he seriously think she was going to stare at him while he was dressing? "Harry, c'mon, I'm not going to peek at anyone . . ."

"No, Hermione. I want you to go wait." Now his tone was nothing less than hard. His eyes were almost blazing. She'd have said he was mad at her if she didn't know any better. . . .

"Oh," she said, somewhat lamely. "Okay. Well, I'll be right outside --"

"Go wait with Ron," he said, emotionless. He opened the door, and before she could even think, he had ushered her out and shut it on her.

A deep pit was burning in her stomach as she stared at the door that Harry, her friend Harry, had just slammed in her face. He wasn't just mad at her for being late. He was pissed.

Ron was giving her a sad look when she turned around to face him. "What am I doing to deserve my life, Ron?" she murmured, burying her face in her hands.

* * *

Harry had rented a limo for them to take to the Phoenix, an expensive pub that was extremely popular in the wizarding world. It was ungodly expensive; Hermione had only eaten there twice in its existence, but it was worth what it cost. Unfortunately, it was worse than being alone when Harry wouldn't even look at her. Countless she attempted to catch his eye, but he would determinedly look away and force his laughter with his friends.

The bartender gave the team, Ron, Hermione, and anyone else with the team drinks on the house. Everyone was being loud, laughing and joking, while Ron, Ginny, and Hermione sat at a bar table by themselves. First Hermione sat alone, and the Ron joined, soon followed by Ginny. Hermione couldn't take her mind off of what had happened, and her eyes were glued to Harry. She knew he was mad. He wasn't being as loud and exuberant as normal. His face seemed strained, preoccupied, as if each smile hurt him.

Ron looked sideways at her, giving her a nudge. "C'mon, Hermione," he said softly, but she didn't remove her gaze from Harry. "Why are you letting this bother you?"

She sighed, taking a sip of her Amaretto Sour. "I don't think I should have to answer that for you, Ron. It's plain as day."

"Look, I know you're mad at him --"

"I'm not mad at him," Hermione interrupted swiftly, making Ron's following words die off. "It's not that at all. He's the one who's mad." She eyed the Seeker one more time over the brim of her glass and turned around in her stool.

The Phoenix was enormous both outside and inside. The walls were a light brown clay color, lit brightly with fifty-foot ceilings, decorated with Quidditch posters and flags, and the most predominant of these were Puddlemere flags. The other customers seated around in the restaurant were watching the loud team take shots and goof around with the bar lady.

"Hey!" Sharing said to her, and she grinned, embarrassed as she walked over to where he sat. She was pretty, and Hermione felt bad for her. Guys must be hitting on her night and day.

"So, what's your name?" Hermione heard Sharing say.

"Celeste," the woman said.

"Ah, me favorite name," Sharing said in his thick accent. "You know, I knew a girl back in Ireland named Celeste, but I must say you're ten times prettier."

Hermione rolled her eyes and sipped her Sour. "Sure she is," she said under her breath. The display of male flattering never seized to amaze her.

Ron said something about getting another Admiral, and Ginny quick scooted her stool over next to Hermione's. "Are you alright?" she asked. "You've been quiet as anything all night."

Hermione set down her drink. "Gin, I don't know exactly what I'm doing."

Ginny gave her a strange look. "About what?"

"About everything. My job, my friends, my family. I haven't spoken to Mum and Dad in over three months because of my job. It's ruining me."

"But you're on vacation. How could it be ruining things now?"

Hermione rested her chin on her hands. "Ever feel like one thing molds how you are?" Ginny thought a moment, and then nodded uncertainly. "Well, this stupid job of mine has gotten me into this mode anymore. I feel like because my job is miserable, it's turning me into a miserable person. And not just at work."

She took a long gulp of her Sour and pushed it away. Ginny said quietly, "Are you mad because you were late today?"

"Of course I'm mad!" Hermione snapped, and Ginny looked away. "This day that should have been an amazing, wonderful day has been ruined and now it's beginning to feel like shit! Because I'm the one who ruined it!"

"Don't talk like that," Ginny said. "You haven't ruined anything." She picked up her purse off the floor. "I have to use the loo."

Hermione watched Ginny go, threw back the small amount left in her glass, and got up from the table, but before she knew what was happening, her feet were carrying her tentatively towards Harry at the bar.

"Harry," she said when she came level with him. He looked around, and the smile that had been on his face a second before flickered drastically.

"Oh," he said stiffly. "Hello, Hermione."

Hermione bit her lip and closed her eyes, willing herself not to lose it. "Can I . . . talk to you?"

Harry licked his lips swiftly and turned around, but instead of following her, he merely leaned back against the bar, propping himself on his elbows. "Sure."

Frustrated, Hermione looked around and leaned forward, saying in an undertone. "Outside. It's important, Harry."

Harry opened his mouth, but his teammates were giving them both odd looks, so he shut it, obviously thinking better of the moment. "Fine."

Hermione led the way out of the bar and into the restroom corridor, where it was dimly lit and rather stuffy feeling. Hermione shut the doors behind Harry and he turned towards her, his expression clearly not amused. It hurt looking at him.

"Harry, listen," started Hermione feverishly. "I know what you're about to say and I'm so sorry."

He had his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw was set tightly. His eyes were looking everywhere but at her face. "Harry, come on, I'm trying to apologize, the least you could do is try to understand."

"Understand?" Harry asked incredulously. "What's to understand?"

"Just listen to what I have to say, alright?"

He sighed through his nostrils and continued to look away from her. She moved her hands as if trying to conjure an alibi. "I . . . I slept in, my alarm clock . . ." Her alarm clock was bound and gagged under her bed, and that was the last thing she was about to say. "It just didn't go off, and when I finally realized what time it was . . . I tried to get there as fast as I could. In fact, I did witness the best moment of your life!" she said, suddenly encouraged. "I saw you get the Snitch and win it all!"

"That's not the point," Harry said, waving it off. "You weren't there to see me off; you weren't there to wish me luck . . ."

"Oh come on, Harry," Hermione said, her arms dropping to her side wearily. "You know I was rooting for you. Did I seriously have to be there to let you know that?"

"You're still not getting the point!" Harry said, his voice no longer the soft note it usually was. "Look, what exactly was so important?"

"The fact that --"

"The fact that you completely blew me off?" he barked, his eyes meeting hers now, but with blazing heat. She took a step back when they scorched into her own. "Hermione, I've had your back with every step of your career, and you actually think I'll attempt to understand as you ignore mine?"

It felt like a punch in the stomach. Hermione's mouth had fallen open. "Harold James Potter, how dare you!" she screamed, compensating for her retreated step with three heavily planted ones towards him. "I would never ignore your life let alone your career! How dare you even think those words! After all I've done for you! I care about your career just as much as you do!"

"If you did you'd have showed up! This was supposed to be the most important match of my life!"

"So attendance at a match -- or lack there of -- is about to make or break our friendship?"

"No!" Harry said angrily, taking a heated step towards her in turn, but she held her ground fiercely. "All I'm saying is that what was supposed to be an incredible day for me, the height of my career, you manage to miss it."

Hermione's head throbbed. "You think I planned this? That I woke up and said, 'Ah, Harry's match is today. Oh well. No big deal if I miss it,' and I just lay around till the end?"

Harry's hands rose up to clutch ferociously at his own hair. "Stop making things harder!"

"I'm not the one making things harder here, Harry Potter!" Things were climbing to a scary, never-been-touched level. Their faces were scat inches apart, and they were screaming at each other louder than they'd screamed at anyone, venting their frustration on their intended target.

"Maybe if you got your priorities in order --"

"My priorities are in perfect order, thank you very much!"

Harry took a heaving breath and said, "Then why don't you just get your head out of your ass!"

Hermione jerked backwards as if the words had hit her physically. Her mouth opened and closed helplessly, and then, shaking, she stepped towards him and slapped him as hard as she could across his face. His heads snapped to the side, and he froze in that position, his eyes shut. Hermione stormed back to the table, grabbed her bag, and despite Ron's pleads to stay, she pushed the double doors open and burst out into the freezing night air.

She hugged her coat tightly around her, tears burning trails down her cheeks and her breathing shuddery and hollow. How could he? How could he be so low as to say something like that to her? Hermione? His best friend of eleven years? Screw him, she thought. He might as well burn in hell for all I care.

A sob escaped her throat, and she wobbled into a dark alley, sinking back against the wall and throwing her head against it, crying. What gave him the right? How dare he? In all the years she'd known, this was probably the most unreasonable he'd ever been. Hermione took a deep breath and tried to calm herself down. He was done. She wasn't putting up with his temper anymore.

A noise yanked her out of her reverie. She looked down into the pitch black alley, sniffing as more tears fell. "Hello?"

Dead silence. She looked around, and then a noise, the same one, came from above her. It was a low, rasping sound. It was too heavy to be a breath, too light to be a cough. She wiped her tears away with her sleeve and looked around. "Is someone there?" A soft skittering sound in front of her made her blood run cold. Someone else was in the alley with her. She began to back away slowly, afraid to make too much movement. And then, all of a sudden, there was a crash, and she opened her mouth to scream . . . when she saw the black cat crawl out of an upturned trashcan.

She let the breath she'd been holding out in a rush. "Oh God," she said. "It's only a cat." She gave a nervous laugh. "A cat. Stupid thing." She squatted down next to the cat and stroked its fur behind its ears. "Hey sweetie," she crooned to it. It lifted its head happily and let her scratch its neck and back. It rubbed its head against her knee, and she smiled. She searched for a collar, but it didn't have one.

"Poor thing," she said quietly. "Well, I can't just let you stay out in the cold. You'll starve or freeze or something. Want to come home and be with my kitty?"

The cat looked up at her with its yellow eyes, and it backed away. Hermione reached out to it again, but it hissed loudly and streaked off into the shadows. "Hey!" Hermione said. Then she sighed, disgruntled. "What was that --?"

But she never finished. A cold hand covered her mouth from behind and an arm wrapped tightly around her arms and stomach, lifting her with surprising strength. She tried to scream, but it came out as a muffled moan. Her heart stopped. There was someone else in the alley.

She kicked and struggled as they ran down the alley with her, but whoever it was wasn't effected at all by the blows. It was getting darker and darker the farther they went. Hermione's bag had been dropped way back, so apparently they weren't robbing her. Her stomach felt as though it had been ripped out. Oh god, no. . . . She moaned and tried to make as much noise as possible. Opening her mouth as much as she could, she bit down as hard as she could on her abductor's hand. They didn't even make a noise. She kicked harder and harder, but nothing was happening.

She was carried far into the alley, and just as she was ready to cry, she was slammed against the wall. The hand was gone from her mouth, holding her arms over her head tightly, and cutting off the circulation to her fingers. But as soon as she was about to scream, she heard someone whisper, "Silencio." She screamed, but nothing came out of her mouth.

There were two people in front of her, one holding her in place, the other standing beside him. She couldn't see their faces in the dark. The one holding her was breathing hard and hot against her face, and, shivering she turned her head to the side. Someone, help, she mouthed, tears streaking her face.

"Go ahead," her abductor hissed at her. "Cry." He leaned in and ran his disgusting tongue up her cheek ruthlessly, licking up her tears. She sobbed silently.

"Leave her alone, Damion," the second rasped. "We were given orders to take her to the Festival. That's all we're going to do."

"Look at her though," said Damion, and she could hear the evil grin on his face. "So pretty . . . I'll bet she's still a virgin . . ."

The sobs were racking her body now as she avoided looking at the two. "I hate this," said the second. "She hasn't done anything to our race, why bother with the innocent?"

"Shut up, Kurda! If you let Tauren hear you speak like that, he'll kill you. What if I want to take her? What are you going to do? Fight me?"

Kurda was silent. "Besides," said Damion. "It's an honor to be taken by a vampire . . ."

Hermione's heart seized any and all beating. They were vampires. And what was this Festival? She felt sick enough to throw up.

"Look at her, though, she's turning green," said Kurda. "Take her if you must, unless you want her to vomit on your new cloak."

She silently thanked Kurda, taking shuddering breaths. Damion was at a loss for words, and he finally said, "Fine, let's go. Such a waste, though," he said, using one hand to hold her hands by her wrists over her head, and the other to turn her face towards him. "Slaughtering virgins. Especially ones as sexy as this one, mind you. If you weren't sick," he said, giving her buttocks a sharp pinch, "I'd shag you bowlegged, you little Mudblood."

Her stomach was reeling. Slaughtering? She let out a desperate sob that was still and silent. And then something clicked. How did they know she was Muggle-born? But before she could do anything, Damion had brought his fist down against the side of her head, and she was unconscious.

* * *

Hermione felt herself regain consciousness. She looked around, and felt her head throb with pain when she moved her head to the side. She felt the clicking and looked slowly down at herself. She was shackled to a chair by her wrists and ankles, the chain wrapped around her chest and legs and neck chinking with every movement. Her sense of hearing began to sharpen a bit more, and she heard the sounds of wild animals and catcalling. She looked around, her eyes sliding in and out of focus, and what she saw was something she'd never expected.

Everywhere, thousands of people, mostly men, were fighting. Not one person fighting another. Every one fighting anyone they could get their hands on. She was in some sort of hall on a platform or altar. It was dimly lit, and reminded her surprisingly of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. But all the people fighting . . . it was like some sort of mosh pit at Woodstock. Upon closer inspection, she saw a fair few of these people hissing and spitting, like . . . like animals or cats . . . and then she saw the fangs, and her mind rushed back to Damion and Kurda . . .

"Vampires," she mouthed, as the spell was still on her. They were everywhere. What was this all about? She'd researched vampires before . . . but nothing ever said anything about wild parties or festivals. She looked around, searching for anything that could help her, or at least Kurda, when her eyes caught the banner stretched across the one wall. In crimson letters (Blood? she thought) were the words Festival of the Undead.

It was then that one of them came from behind her, facing the crowd and stepping in front of her. She'd never seen someone so . . . artful. His entire body was covered in tattoos and was hairless. He had piercings covering his face, and he was wearing a black vest and silk pants. He outstretched his arms, and the vampires stopped scuffling and roared with cheers and applause. She tired her best to look behind her, and she saw three thrones, one empty, obviously the bald one's, and the other two held too men. One who looked as old as Dumbledore, and another, who had features like an eagle and eyes like Draco Malfoy's.

"Welcome, friends!" cried the bald one. The vampires whistled and catcalled, some looking at her hungrily, and she shivered.

"What an extraordinary day this is," he continued when the crowd quieted down. "Simply amazing. Not only is it the first night of the Festival of the Undead, my people." Wilder cheering. "But we have with us tonight a legend." This brought on murmuring. Hermione frowned. Surely they weren't talking about her? But she was answered when he continued. "She is here tonight, taking her Trials. It's truly an honor to introduce her. Here to being the Sacrifice of the Innocent, we have with us . . ."

Hermione couldn't hear the name, because at this introduction, the crowd was cheering so wildly, Hermione was afraid the windows high near the ceiling of the hall would shatter from such noise. She strained to see who her executioner might be, but people were blocking the way. Soon the crowd began to let the guest of honor through, but who she saw gave her a jolt in the pit of her stomach.

It was the girl. The girl she'd seen before over in America. It hit Hermione harder than Damion's fist. No wonder she was special . . . she was a vampire. Hermione instantly hated this girl. She didn't even know her name and she hated her. The girl was dressed in all black, with black lipstick and hair and eyeliner, making her blue eyes even more outstanding. Having discarded her glasses, Hermione almost didn't recognize her, but the eyes gave it away. She was waving to people as she headed up towards Hermione, every strutted step dripping with arrogance. She shook hands and gave hugs, but as she turned towards the altar and laid eyes on Hermione, she stopped, her smile vanishing like a light bulb blowing.

"Come on up!" the bald vampire shouted.

The girl's eyes flickered to the man, and back to Hermione, and then she grinned, and Hermione could see her fangs; small, pointed canines gleaming bright white. "Hello, Arrow!" she said in her American accent, walking up to the bald vampire and embracing him like a father. "It's been years."

"So it has," he said. The vampires were cheering crazily. "Why don't you inspect her?" he declared, and he turned the girl towards Hermione.

She was still grinning as she sauntered over to Hermione's chair and she walked around her. "What a pretty witch . . ." Hermione heard her whisper. She ran her fingers through Hermione's hair and around, caressing her jaw and taking her chin into her hand, tilting Hermione's head up. "So pretty . . ." She leaned in and their noses were almost touching. Hermione was now praying to be sick. Sweat was rolling down her back and she was trembling, shutting her eyes tightly.

"Open your eyes," said the girl, who looked no older than fourteen. Hermione opened them. The crowd was still cheering and chanting something in a different language. The girl smirked and nuzzled her forehead against Hermione's. Hermione was ready to bite or struggle, anything to avoid getting killed. But she froze over as the girl leaned in towards the side of her neck, obviously about to bite. Only, what happened then was confusing.

Just as she was wishing she hadn't fought with Harry, and that she wished she could tell him she loved him, she felt lips against her ear and she heard the girl whisper something that didn't make any sense. "Don't worry, Hermione . . ." the girl whispered. "I'm going to save you . . ."

Hermione was still trembling as the girl pulled back, looked Hermione dead in the eye with a look that seemed . . . apologetic. She blew against Hermione's face, and when Hermione inhaled her warm breath, everything went black again.