Chimera’s Call

Chapter 3

"PEEVES!"
Harry and Ron flinched hard. They had barely managed to close the door again -- the sheer force of the blizzard had seemed to want to cover the inside of Hogwarts with snow just as much as the outside.
They shook their heads simultaneously, sending snowflakes flying over the neatly cleaned floor.
"PEEVES! I’LL GET YOU THIS TIME!!"
Ron cast a worried glance at Harry and slowly moved towards the stair. "I don’t know about you, but if Filch is already in such a bad mood, maybe it would be better if he didn’t see what we brought in."
Harry’s gaze wandered towards the snowdrift that had followed them in and was now slowly melting into a large puddle.
"PEEVES! ONE MORE SNOWFLAKE IN THIS CASTLE, AND I’LL HAVE YOUR HEAD!"
Hearing Filch and flying up the stairs was one.

***

"Cho-co-late par-fait." Ron gasped when they reached the picture of the Fat Lady.
"You, too?" she asked, disgusted. "Goodness gracious, doesn’t any one of you know how to stay dry?"
Again, she squeezed her plump body into the corner farthest away from the dripping wet boys and was sourly disappointed to realise that they completely ignored her protest.
"One of these days, Harry, you won’t be there, and that’ll be the day I’ll show him what it means to --"
"One of these days, you’ll get into severe trouble, that’s what will happen." Harry heaved a breath and ran a hand through his wet hair. "Malfoy is just provoking you, trying to get you to --"
"I guess you won’t be interested in hearing that the fireplaces will not work properly?"
Harry and Ron wheeled around, the entrance to the common room and Malfoy forgotten.
"What?"
"Why?"
The Fat Lady looked extremely pleased with herself, and wiped away a droplet of water from her skirt with a smug grin. "Got your attention, didn’t it?"
Harry, whose teeth were chattering in a steady rhythm by now, was rather put off by the Fat Lady’s grin. "W-hy aren’t they w-working?"
"You’re not asking nicely . . ." she huffed.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Ron getting ready to shake his wet hair in the direction of the picture. "Well?"
"Er . . . I guess that is nice enough," she said, trying in vain to move even further away from Ron, who grinned maliciously.
"S-So?"
"Peeves. That ghastly poltergeist has clogged the fireplaces with snow and that has short-circuited the floo network. Also, most of the fires have gone out."
Ron groaned. "No heat?"
"Not unless Miss Granger has found a way to . . ."
Harry had to suppress a grin when he saw Ron straightening and puffing his chest slightly. "Then we don’t have to worry."
He slipped past the flabbergasted Fat Lady and was gone from sight.
"He’s right, you know," Harry added and winked at the pink-robed woman in the picture before slipping past her as well.

***

Harry welcomed the relative warmth of the Gryffindor common room, which proved that Ron had been right in his initial trust in Hermione’s skills.
Without checking on the common room further, Harry dashed up the stairs to his dormitory and shed his drenched clothes quickly. A hot bath would be pleasant right now, but he doubted that there’d be much hope for hot water after what Peeves had done. ‘Ruddy poltergeist,’ he thought as he donned dry pants and a fresh jumper.
While he trudged down the stairs to get back to the fireplace, he hoped that maybe he’d get the house elves to get something warm to eat and drink for Ron and him before the actual dinner. And Hermione. Although she probably had eaten already.
He flopped down in one of the big armchairs and closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the tingling sensation the fire brought to his frozen limbs.
"My, she must have been tired," Ron remarked in a whisper and Harry opened his eyes again. Indeed, Hermione was sleeping on the couch in front of the fire, a mug of tea still in front of her, and a book slipped from her limp hands.
"D’you reckon we should wake her?"
Harry chewed his bottom lip. True, she must have been tired, but leaving her here while they got something to eat? It didn’t seem fair.
"She might want to grab a bite, too; let’s wake her."
Ron poked a long, freckled finger at Hermione’s arm. "Sleepy-head. Time for dinner."
No reaction.
"Hermione?"
No reaction.
A more vigorous poke. "Hermione!"
No reaction.
Ron sighed heavily. "Play acting, she is. You try to wake her."
Harry rolled his eyes and rose from the comfortable warmth of the armchair. "Your books are on fire, Hermione," he said, matter-of-factly.
No reaction. Not the merest twitch of a muscles or a sound.
It was then that Harry saw the trickle of blood on Hermione’s cheek.

Interlude I

Hermione felt the darkness touching her. It fell on her like a thick fog that made it hard to breathe or move.
There was something in the dark. Her instincts told her to watch out even before her mind knew why. Something lingered in the dark, waiting to attack its prey.
Her.
Why on earth couldn't she move? Why was everything she had learned at school useless right now? Why did she feel so utterly and horribly helpless?
She reached for her wand, her one safety line. Nothing. Anxiously, she searched within her robes, but found nothing as well. She was alone. She was defenceless. There was barely any spell which could be done without a wand!
Hermione heard the thing coming into action. It slowly crept in the darkness, creating noises that made her hair stand on end. Her worst fears seemed to come true. Alone and helpless.
She knew there was no such thing as a strange creature that lived in the darkness. Not here at any rate. Those were nightmares from her childhood. They just weren't true. But why didn't this explanation hold any comfort?
She suddenly was five years old again and caught in a dream she couldn't escape.
It was coming closer. Much closer. She already thought she could feel its hot breath on her skin.
Why couldn't she fight this? It would be so easy to get away if she just got up and ran. But where was she supposed to run to? She had no idea how far the darkness went and what further dangers it hid.
Despite those facts she started to move. Scared or not, she wouldn't just sit and wait.
As soon as she tried, she realised that it was impossible. She was trapped. The hot breath now really was there, she could feel it on her throat.
For a few moments Hermione simply froze. The fear was so overwhelming that it suffocated everything.
It was only now that she realised that whatever had her trapped wasn't a thing. Her childhood nightmare changed into a more present one. Suddenly she knew the hands that held her. Knew that they were slightly callused from Quidditch practice, knew them to be gentle and comforting. Again there was no consolation in this knowledge.
A warm stickiness soaked her school robes. She smelt something . . . like copper . . . and death. The hot breath on her throat felt like acid, burning into her skin.
"Hermione."
She knew that voice. Gentle and deep, not quite adult, yet far from boyish. She knew whom it belonged to. But it could not be, it must not be.
'Don't, don't, don't. Not this nightmare. Please not this one!'
The words inside her head became like some kind of mantra she was clinging to, hoping that by the time she had finally managed to stop repeating the words, the dream would be gone.
It didn't work. Of course it didn't. None of those things ever worked. She wouldn't stop it if she didn't fight.
The grip on her body tightened, albeit gently. Fear paralysed her. "You're going to help me, aren’t you, Hermione? You’re not going to let me do this alone, are you?"
'Don't touch me, don't touch me, DON'T TOUCH ME!'
To her surprise she must've yelled those words, because she could still hear the shrill echo of them hanging in the oily dark.
The hand touched her face.

***

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