Horror Stories Part 3
Do you like to be frightened, little fangirl? Do scary things that go bump in the night fascinate you? Then this week's quiz is just for you. Muahahahaha! Unsettling, scary, and horrific tales await you. Let's just hope you do well ... or who knows what horrors will be unleashed!
Want to give Hermione a run for her money in the know-it-all field? Simply play the quiz by commenting on this post with your answers at any time over the weekend. All comments with answers will be screened until the answer sheet is posted on Monday morning EDT. On Monday, all quizzlings with the correct answers will receive a pretty banner to prove their quiz prowess. Ready? Set? Play!
Match the story to the quote without falling for the red herring titles:
His Water of Life by kelly_h80
Horribly Happy by cathedralcarver
Berwick by A Plus
And Yet by 7letterdirt
Deal With the Devil by chivalric55
Dark Desecration by southernwitch69
The Quality of Silence by absolute-tash
Apparitions by Brownrecluse
By Any Other Name by death-ofme
Coveted Persecution by battle_of_lissa
String Quartet No. 4 Opus 83 by eaberrance
The Bone Knife by kizzy7
1. You reach a tentative hand out to brush them (the wings!).
The skin is not scaly or slimy or rotting.
Its warm and dry, the powdery flush curling in strange patterns of brown and soft blue-grays.
She shudders with delight and her eyes light up with something akin to pleasure.
You withdraw you hand, disgusted, and for a moment, your eyes connect and you see the entrails of her mind littering her cranial cavity.
There was nothing left. Someone else's wand tip had mixed her DNA and scrambled it like it was for breakfast, shaken her components around and made her subhuman, just because they could.
2. He presses it into her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. Eyes drift downwards; she gasps. The handle is black and twisted, but it is the blade that causes her stomach to twist in fear. Long, thin, curved upwards at the end. So purely white that it glows in the darkness engulfing them. And it feels… real.
“Severus! What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he answers. “But it must be important.” He kisses her, pressing his lips against her own with force. Hermione shivers at the sensation, for his skin is ghostly and only half-alive beneath her fingertips.
They fuck that night, their naked bodies gleaming in the void. As he comes, Severus grasps the knife beside him.
Fear nibbles against her chest as she presses kisses to his scarred neck.
3. "She says she's cold."
"She's not cold, Hermione. She's dead."
She flinched. But she didn't draw her arm away from me.
"What if she's both?"
I unwrapped her arm from my waist, and gathered up both her hands. I held them inside of mine.
"You're cold."
I blew warm air against her hands. I have no idea if it made any difference. I do know she turned her gaze from the arch. She turned it to me. She reclaimed both of her hands and lay them aside my face. She looked deeply into my eyes. I had no idea what she saw. But I'll never forget what she said.
"You want to make love."
4. He was standing on her coffin. He grinned.
He smashed the coffin open, pulled it back with trembling fingers.
Hermione.
Oh my darling, my darling. He pulled her to him, buried his face in her hair, breathed in the smell of her.
He gathered her up in his arms, heaved her up over the edge of the gaping hole. She was his once again. He would never let her go again. Not ever.
He barely remembered getting her home, but he did remember laughing, quietly, and weeping, too. Running through his mind were a hundred spells, a hundred incantations of the darkest magic imaginable. One of them, one of them had to work. It had to. He would make it. Hermione would be his once more, he knew as he smashed through his front door and laid her reverently on the worn, green couch where they had once made love.
She would be his once more. It would be as if nothing had happened. He laughed until his throat ached.
Was Snape undeniably, irrevocably mad?
Yes.
And was Hermione undeniably, irrevocably dead?
Maybe.
5. Hermione sat by the lake with a torch and lantern on hand. She was out at midnight to collect potion herbs needed for her morning class. As she was cutting the root with her knife, she felt a cramping in her lower belly. Her time was upon her again, and she made a mental note to consult with Madam Pomfrey soon.
Since she had returned to Hogwarts, she had found odd occurrences happening to her around that time of month. She became forgetful, and there were times for which she could not account. Hopefully, Madam Pomfrey would be able to explain why this was happening to her. But she could not worry about that now, she had work to do. She had to finish collecting the herbs for class, and then she had to revise her essay for Professor Snape before handing it in.
As she worked away she was unaware of a moving shadow behind her. The dark figure watched her a few short feet away, and he was ready to strike her at any moment.
6. Hermione was suddenly overwhelmed by an oppressive, black depression. It seeped into her skull like cold, dark water and trickled down to her very stomach, gnawing and consuming. It was a tidal force that quickly enveloped her and she felt unwanted tears stream from her eyes and her mouth opened in a silent scream.
“Professor?”
Hermione could only release a guttural groan in reply, head falling forward and grinding into the wooden grain of her desk. Her hands had contorted into claws and she felt as if something was screaming inside of her.
“The professor’s unwell! Get Head Matron!”
“No… ” Hermione managed to gasp. “My office… Help me to my office… ”
Her classroom descended into chaos, and finally one of the students had the presence of mind to go grab another professor. Professor Sinistra quickly summoned Hagrid and then barked at the panicked third years to maintain order. Hagrid gingerly picked up Hermione and carried her to the Infirmary, despite her protests that she wanted to go to her office.
7. Her head lolls to one side, taking in the half of the room she has not yet seen. There are three men. The one in the white lab coat with the blue eyes and the surgical mask holds up a syringe with a clear liquid inside. The other two stand sentinel at either side of the door and what she sees next freezes her blood.
She has been a part of this war for years now. She has been tortured, poisoned, split open by curses. She has had Bellatrix Lestrange's knife held to her throat and Dolohov's wand pointed at her heart, but none of this has terrified her as much as the current sight. These men hold guns.
The Muggle world to her is synonymous with the safety of her childhood. It is the world of cartoons and Barbie dolls. It is the world of innocence, before danger and fear. She has fought for years on the front lines of a war, she has lived at wandpoint for longer than she cares to remember, but nothing has struck fear into her heart like the sight of the weapons these men hold.
She tries to move her arm and is not surprised to find that she is restrained. She is a prisoner of these Muggles and they wish her harm.
8. Something had happened, but Hermione couldn't recall what it was. She was confused, her whole body ached, her head was in agony, and when she finally managed to open her eyes, she was shocked at the sight around her.
The clearing, their clearing, hers and Severus's, was dead. Every tree that surrounded the small place had lost its leaves, and the bark had fallen to the ground in messy heaps. The grass was brown, the flowers that had blossomed when she had arrived not that long ago lay trampled to the ground. No bird was singing, no squirrel was playing in the branches. Not even the insects were humming - a closer look revealed to Hermione that there were the tiny corpses of butterflies, bumble bees, mosquitoes sprinkled all across the dry meadow.
Stricken with fear Hermione got up, wincing at the pain that shot up her legs. She licked her lips and tasted blood; she looked down her dress and saw that it was torn to pieces; she could locate a button or two lying between a dead bird and a bit of oak bark. Shuddering, she wrapped her arms round her shivering body: what had happened?
9. My first attempts were disastrous, my class schedule was not conducive to my singular choice of independent study, and I've never been proficient at remembering my dreams, but I wasn't going to let a little thing like a steep learning curve prevent me from becoming a latter day Persephone-in-reverse. I would snatch Hades from his dark throne and carry him into the sunlit world! Journaling helped me discover my anchor, my personal symbol.
A circle.
Old magic. Why hadn't I thought if it sooner?
I cast a circle thrice on the floor: wandlight, salt, and ashes.
Finally, I was ready.
10. Counting fifty-nine, counting sixty…
My father killed my mother when I was three. A lesson in the consequences of disobedience for me, or so he said.
I admire poisons because they can be set safely on a shelf.
When I was old enough to understand the significance of my memory, the curse became an obsession. Though I was not yet old enough to have a wand, I pretended to use it on insects. Every ant and fly I killed was my father, and I imagined watching the flash of green light take the life from his hated eyes the same way it had robbed the warmth from my mother’s embrace.
Granger is helping Longbottom again. I see it; she knows I notice, I know she knows that I know; our intricate little dance goes on.
Counting one hundred-twenty, counting one hundred twenty-one…
“Mr. Potter, I would appreciate your not killing us all by adding the powdered root in your hand. Twenty points from Gryffindor.”
Exactly like his bloody father.
Want to give Hermione a run for her money in the know-it-all field? Simply play the quiz by commenting on this post with your answers at any time over the weekend. All comments with answers will be screened until the answer sheet is posted on Monday morning EDT. On Monday, all quizzlings with the correct answers will receive a pretty banner to prove their quiz prowess. Ready? Set? Play!
Match the story to the quote without falling for the red herring titles:
His Water of Life by kelly_h80
Horribly Happy by cathedralcarver
Berwick by A Plus
And Yet by 7letterdirt
Deal With the Devil by chivalric55
Dark Desecration by southernwitch69
The Quality of Silence by absolute-tash
Apparitions by Brownrecluse
By Any Other Name by death-ofme
Coveted Persecution by battle_of_lissa
String Quartet No. 4 Opus 83 by eaberrance
The Bone Knife by kizzy7
1. You reach a tentative hand out to brush them (the wings!).
The skin is not scaly or slimy or rotting.
Its warm and dry, the powdery flush curling in strange patterns of brown and soft blue-grays.
She shudders with delight and her eyes light up with something akin to pleasure.
You withdraw you hand, disgusted, and for a moment, your eyes connect and you see the entrails of her mind littering her cranial cavity.
There was nothing left. Someone else's wand tip had mixed her DNA and scrambled it like it was for breakfast, shaken her components around and made her subhuman, just because they could.
2. He presses it into her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. Eyes drift downwards; she gasps. The handle is black and twisted, but it is the blade that causes her stomach to twist in fear. Long, thin, curved upwards at the end. So purely white that it glows in the darkness engulfing them. And it feels… real.
“Severus! What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he answers. “But it must be important.” He kisses her, pressing his lips against her own with force. Hermione shivers at the sensation, for his skin is ghostly and only half-alive beneath her fingertips.
They fuck that night, their naked bodies gleaming in the void. As he comes, Severus grasps the knife beside him.
Fear nibbles against her chest as she presses kisses to his scarred neck.
3. "She says she's cold."
"She's not cold, Hermione. She's dead."
She flinched. But she didn't draw her arm away from me.
"What if she's both?"
I unwrapped her arm from my waist, and gathered up both her hands. I held them inside of mine.
"You're cold."
I blew warm air against her hands. I have no idea if it made any difference. I do know she turned her gaze from the arch. She turned it to me. She reclaimed both of her hands and lay them aside my face. She looked deeply into my eyes. I had no idea what she saw. But I'll never forget what she said.
"You want to make love."
4. He was standing on her coffin. He grinned.
He smashed the coffin open, pulled it back with trembling fingers.
Hermione.
Oh my darling, my darling. He pulled her to him, buried his face in her hair, breathed in the smell of her.
He gathered her up in his arms, heaved her up over the edge of the gaping hole. She was his once again. He would never let her go again. Not ever.
He barely remembered getting her home, but he did remember laughing, quietly, and weeping, too. Running through his mind were a hundred spells, a hundred incantations of the darkest magic imaginable. One of them, one of them had to work. It had to. He would make it. Hermione would be his once more, he knew as he smashed through his front door and laid her reverently on the worn, green couch where they had once made love.
She would be his once more. It would be as if nothing had happened. He laughed until his throat ached.
Was Snape undeniably, irrevocably mad?
Yes.
And was Hermione undeniably, irrevocably dead?
Maybe.
5. Hermione sat by the lake with a torch and lantern on hand. She was out at midnight to collect potion herbs needed for her morning class. As she was cutting the root with her knife, she felt a cramping in her lower belly. Her time was upon her again, and she made a mental note to consult with Madam Pomfrey soon.
Since she had returned to Hogwarts, she had found odd occurrences happening to her around that time of month. She became forgetful, and there were times for which she could not account. Hopefully, Madam Pomfrey would be able to explain why this was happening to her. But she could not worry about that now, she had work to do. She had to finish collecting the herbs for class, and then she had to revise her essay for Professor Snape before handing it in.
As she worked away she was unaware of a moving shadow behind her. The dark figure watched her a few short feet away, and he was ready to strike her at any moment.
6. Hermione was suddenly overwhelmed by an oppressive, black depression. It seeped into her skull like cold, dark water and trickled down to her very stomach, gnawing and consuming. It was a tidal force that quickly enveloped her and she felt unwanted tears stream from her eyes and her mouth opened in a silent scream.
“Professor?”
Hermione could only release a guttural groan in reply, head falling forward and grinding into the wooden grain of her desk. Her hands had contorted into claws and she felt as if something was screaming inside of her.
“The professor’s unwell! Get Head Matron!”
“No… ” Hermione managed to gasp. “My office… Help me to my office… ”
Her classroom descended into chaos, and finally one of the students had the presence of mind to go grab another professor. Professor Sinistra quickly summoned Hagrid and then barked at the panicked third years to maintain order. Hagrid gingerly picked up Hermione and carried her to the Infirmary, despite her protests that she wanted to go to her office.
7. Her head lolls to one side, taking in the half of the room she has not yet seen. There are three men. The one in the white lab coat with the blue eyes and the surgical mask holds up a syringe with a clear liquid inside. The other two stand sentinel at either side of the door and what she sees next freezes her blood.
She has been a part of this war for years now. She has been tortured, poisoned, split open by curses. She has had Bellatrix Lestrange's knife held to her throat and Dolohov's wand pointed at her heart, but none of this has terrified her as much as the current sight. These men hold guns.
The Muggle world to her is synonymous with the safety of her childhood. It is the world of cartoons and Barbie dolls. It is the world of innocence, before danger and fear. She has fought for years on the front lines of a war, she has lived at wandpoint for longer than she cares to remember, but nothing has struck fear into her heart like the sight of the weapons these men hold.
She tries to move her arm and is not surprised to find that she is restrained. She is a prisoner of these Muggles and they wish her harm.
8. Something had happened, but Hermione couldn't recall what it was. She was confused, her whole body ached, her head was in agony, and when she finally managed to open her eyes, she was shocked at the sight around her.
The clearing, their clearing, hers and Severus's, was dead. Every tree that surrounded the small place had lost its leaves, and the bark had fallen to the ground in messy heaps. The grass was brown, the flowers that had blossomed when she had arrived not that long ago lay trampled to the ground. No bird was singing, no squirrel was playing in the branches. Not even the insects were humming - a closer look revealed to Hermione that there were the tiny corpses of butterflies, bumble bees, mosquitoes sprinkled all across the dry meadow.
Stricken with fear Hermione got up, wincing at the pain that shot up her legs. She licked her lips and tasted blood; she looked down her dress and saw that it was torn to pieces; she could locate a button or two lying between a dead bird and a bit of oak bark. Shuddering, she wrapped her arms round her shivering body: what had happened?
9. My first attempts were disastrous, my class schedule was not conducive to my singular choice of independent study, and I've never been proficient at remembering my dreams, but I wasn't going to let a little thing like a steep learning curve prevent me from becoming a latter day Persephone-in-reverse. I would snatch Hades from his dark throne and carry him into the sunlit world! Journaling helped me discover my anchor, my personal symbol.
A circle.
Old magic. Why hadn't I thought if it sooner?
I cast a circle thrice on the floor: wandlight, salt, and ashes.
Finally, I was ready.
10. Counting fifty-nine, counting sixty…
My father killed my mother when I was three. A lesson in the consequences of disobedience for me, or so he said.
I admire poisons because they can be set safely on a shelf.
When I was old enough to understand the significance of my memory, the curse became an obsession. Though I was not yet old enough to have a wand, I pretended to use it on insects. Every ant and fly I killed was my father, and I imagined watching the flash of green light take the life from his hated eyes the same way it had robbed the warmth from my mother’s embrace.
Granger is helping Longbottom again. I see it; she knows I notice, I know she knows that I know; our intricate little dance goes on.
Counting one hundred-twenty, counting one hundred twenty-one…
“Mr. Potter, I would appreciate your not killing us all by adding the powdered root in your hand. Twenty points from Gryffindor.”
Exactly like his bloody father.