Apocalypse and You | Dramione

November 3rd, 2002.

3rd November, 2002.

The sound of another helicopter hitting the water occupying the Thames echoed through the street, making each and every wall around Hermione shake and shiver.

It was the second one in the past twenty-five hours, another life gone.

Hermione reluctantly pushed the sound of bitter drowning to the back of her mind and proceeded to double-check that the window was locked tight, before making her way back into the bathroom, locking the door tightly behind herself and flicking the switches to plunge herself into safe darkness.

The bathtub was her bed for the night. Her body was curled in half, her arms hugging the navy sweatshirt against her chest.

It had been worn by a friend. Before all of this happened.

Though she couldn't quite remember which friend occupied the item of clothing.

She was scared. She wanted to crumble.

She didn't remember what time she woke up, yet she was brought to life by the familiar sound of the wired siren, blaring, ringing, filling her eardrums until she wanted to scream.

Though she didn't, screaming was forbidden. She could not be found, because then she would be taken away, to one of the camps, to one of the hospitals, or to the graveyard.

When Hermione found the courage to peel herself from the security of the bathtub, she pulled her feet to the kitchen, paying no attention to the pair of dusty glasses that sit on the counter.

She couldn't look at them. She couldn't remind herself of the before.

Instead, she poured herself a small bowl of cereal, only small, because she was running low on milk and she was too frightened to try and make her way to the store during this time of day. It was too early, too manic, she didn't want to be caught by the patrols, not yet, anyway.

She ate the food quickly. Her hands were shaking, the spoon quivering when she pressed it against her lips.

It was only morning, but she was ready to go back into the bathroom and hide her head with her hands all day, to block out the sounds of the screams outside.

But she can't. Something strange had happened. A knock on her front door.

Daydreaming had become a fickle task in Hermione's mind. She daydreamed too much. Sometimes it consumed her senses and told her it was reality.

She couldn't decide if this was one of those moments. Was someone really knocking at her door? Or had her mind tricked her into believing as much?

This certainly cannot be happening, Hermione thought, quickly dropping her spoon and scrunching herself into a ball behind the kitchen counter with her head in her knees.

By then Hermione was crying. Her body had begun to tremble.

I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.

Someone knocked again, and again, and again until she could hear the letterbox open.

A male voice rang through into the dark room.

She knew she was not daydreaming this time.

"Please, if anyone is there-" The voice was pleading—Pained. Wrecked. On the verge of death.

Hermione's body stopped trembling for a very short defying moment. She had lift her head to listen more intently.

"Please open up, please help me, please, please."