I'm sorry.

She really had the worst luck ever.

In the middle of battle, with hexes and unforgivable flying around in the air, her best friend just had to lose his glasses. Hermione knew that Harry was of no use without his glasses, and so she had to stick with him the whole time as to make sure that some Death Eater didn't recognize him and take him to Voldemort. She thought it would be easy – she'd just make sure that Harry's back was always against the wall, and she'd stand in front of him, deflecting and duelling and battling until he was at a safe place so that she could just accio his glasses. It seemed easy, right?

Wrong.

Because she had the most fucking impulsive best friend ever.

And when Harry flung himself to the side to try and protect a fourth year who looked quite a lot like Colin and started duelling the Death Eater who tried to attack that boy, Hermione knew that something bad was going to happen – either to her, or him, or somebody else. Harry couldn't see a thing, and so his spells were going off course. Since Harry was vital in this battle, because nobody else could fucking defeat the Dark Lord, and the killing curse was quickly speeding his way, Hermione flung herself in front of her best friend, whispering a small I'm sorry to him just before the curse knocked the air out of her, and Hermione Granger breathed no more.

But wait – what was this? Was she really lying on a white porcelain floor, and was there really no ceiling on top of her, exposing eternal darkness? What was this place, and why was she conscious? It was unheard of; but then again, not many wizards lived to tell the tale of this mysterious room. She could hear scuffling and- was that rain? Where was she? Hermione's body lifted itself and she was leaned backwards in her arms, examining the surroundings. The scuffling she heard happened to be footsteps apparently, because she could see a tall, lean figure approaching her.

"You look fairly young. What was it?" came the voice – a smooth baritone that made Hermione almost swoon. It had an adorable accent, and she just hoped he didn't turn out to be an utter douchebag. It would be nice to know where she was without being spited at; the voice was just a plus.

"What was what? Where am I?"

"You mean you don't know? This is the wizard version of hell or heaven – whichever you would prefer," he stepped close, and Hermione struggles to place those features to a known face. She had seen him before – or someone had described him – but who was he? "You're dead."

"Gee, thanks. I had no clue," she deadpanned, eliciting a small chuckle from him. "Who are you?"

"That doesn't matter. You're dead, and I want to know why. You don't even seem too old."

"Nor do you, for that matter," Hermione was now getting impatient. Why was he hiding his identity from her? None of it made sense, and Hermione was this close to tearing her hair apart. It wasn't a usual occurrence for her to not know something.

The boy's eyebrows raised at that. She wondered why – was he not used to people answering back to him? Was he some sort of royal? That could explain why she found his face familiar… but it didn't make sense. "Alright. I'm Tom Riddle."

Well, that just fucked everything up, didn't it?

I might continue this. I don't know.