Author's Note: Loosely based on The Tempest, but somehow it went in a really bizarre direction. All italicised passages are directly from the Tempest, and just kind of go with the stuff that's non-canon (both from The Tempest and Harry Potter. Like Draco's eye colour—it just seemed more poetic XD)

For reference (in case it wasn't obvious):

Prospero – Albus Dumbledore
Miranda – Hermione Granger
Ariel – Luna Lovegood (yes, I know Ariel is male in The Tempest)
Caliban – Draco Malfoy
Sycorax – Bellatrix Lestrange
Antonio – Aberforth Dumbledore
Gonzalo – Minerva McGonagall (yes, I know Gonzalo is male in The Tempest XD)

Such Stuff As Dreams

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on,
and our little life is rounded with a sleep."

A tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning could be heard raging outside of Hogwarts. Hermione, her chest gently rising and falling in time with the rhythmic patter of rain on her window, lay alone in the darkness. Hair fanned out against her pillow, head turned in breathless awe towards the window that overlooked the grounds from Gryffindor Tower, she was entranced.

A jagged fork of lightning suddenly streaked across the sky, a rumbling groan of thunder to accompany it, and for a brief second, the whole room was illuminated as though she was in broad daylight.

The night was starless. A blanket of grey had been stretched across the sky, swirling darkness sending torrents of rain to the ground with unrivalled force. A steady drumbeat, a steady heartbeat, and Hermione's eyes eventually fluttered shut.

The storm raged on.

"Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices,
That, if then I had waked after long sleep, will make me sleep again…"

Twelve years had passed since the tempest that had shipwrecked them. The boats on the Black Lake hadn't stood a chance against the swirling beast, and there had been no chance of escape. She could recall every scream, every rumble of thunder, and every harrowing shriek of wind, as piercing as a banshee.

Twelve years had passed since Hermione and Dumbledore alone had reached the island, and yet neither had aged a day. It was as though time hung in a limbo—she, still as young and youthful in appearance as she had been at the age of fifteen when the tempest had struck, and he, as old and wizened as she had always known him to be.

The magic that veiled the island was nothing compared to the magic of the world Hermione had previously known. Creatures, plants, sounds, smells, and sights that were cloaked in mystery and mysticism. It was often hard for her to differentiate between what was real and what was not.

Was anything real anymore?

Tentatively, she approached the man she now considered her father, who stood tall and magnificent as he gazed out over the ocean. Waves rippled along the shoreline, gentle and calming, but the image of the white-capped crests that had barrelled into their tiny wooden boat still haunted them both.

"Hermione," Dumbledore said fondly without looking away from the ocean. "Your mind is troubled?"

"It's been twelve years," Hermione replied quietly.

"And you're unhappy?"

"Aren't you?" she asked in surprise.

Dumbledore finally turned to look at her. A gentle twinkle flashed in his eyes as he observed Hermione down his crooked nose, eyes full of wisdom and kindness. He said nothing.

"I… I miss it," Hermione said after a while.

"You remember it?" Dumbledore inquired. "Twelve years ago, and you remember your life before?"

"Not all of it," Hermione confessed. "I don't remember people—names and faces. I don't remember my friends, my family. In fact, I barely remember any of it." She took a shaky breath. "But I remember magic."

Riddled in mystery, there was no apparating to or from the island they had come to be stranded on. Though there was no doubt that magic thrived all around them, they themselves were helpless. Wands lost in the brutal storm, the only way off of the island was via boat, and yet somehow they had always dismissed the idea of departure.

Why should they leave? What was there to return to? Was life on the island not blissful enough? They had food, shelter—they even had books! And they never aged. In some ways, they had discovered a utopia, and yet Hermione had never felt truly content.

Magic, Hermione recalled, when harnessed by the most powerful of wizards, could surge from within, without the use of incantations or even wands. And she knew Dumbledore had once been the greatest, most powerful wizard of all time. If anybody was capable of wandless magic, it was him.

But he had never opted to make any amends to their situation. Hermione had never suggested it, out of courtesy. Why was Dumbledore so rooted to this island? He had found solace there—perhaps an escape from his former life. But what was he hiding from?

"Magic," Dumbledore repeated wistfully, as though recalling distant, but fond memories.

Hermione dropped her eyes to the ground in a timid manner. "We could use magic to escape the island," she said, barely louder than a whisper.

Something else flitted into Dumbledore's eyes, the twinkle suddenly diminished. Fear, Hermione wondered, or maybe even dread.

"You were a great sorcerer," Hermione encouraged him. "I—I don't know how, but there has to be a way to escape using magic, doesn't there?"

"And if there were, what would that achieve?" Dumbledore inquired, almost a little snappily, Hermione thought. "Twelve years have passed—what is there for us out there? We live here; we flourish. We have food, and shelter, and books, and beautiful scenery. We have solitude and peace—no haunting pasts, no responsibilities. Eternal youth," he said thoughtfully.

Hermione bit her lip. "But for twelve years?"

"Forever, Hermione."

"And what kind of life is that?" she asked quietly.

"What do you think would happen if we were to return to Hogwarts?" Dumbledore countered. "Twelve years have passed—nothing would be the same. All the friends you knew will have aged and moved on."

Hermione could barely even recall the friends she'd known. "Maybe it's not like that," she suggested. "Maybe where we are, on this island, time has stopped. Perhaps, if we returned, we'd find that no time had passed at all? It would explain why we've never aged," she pointed out. "It—it makes sense."

"It's a possibility," Dumbledore considered, "but it's still invalid."

"But we belong at Hogwarts!" Hermione protested, suddenly enraged by Dumbledore's lack of consideration. "You belong at Hogwarts, and—"

"I belong here," he said calmly, though a storm raged in his eyes. "I have left that life behind, and all the tribulations it posed. This is my life now, and yours, too."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "This is not life," she spat. "This is not living; this is merely surviving."

She turned away before anything more could be said, riled up by her imprisonment. She had known a man, a long time ago, and he had been confined to twelve years of literal imprisonment. Was that a memory?—she wondered—or just another dream? Another creation of her wild imagination?

It didn't matter anymore. She was the prisoner now. Where Dumbledore saw paradise and utopia, Hermione saw only an endless, barren wasteland.

"Hermione," a gentle, twinkly voice declared.

Away from the shoreline and the brooding wizard, Hermione had retreated towards the centre of the island, battling her way through the vegetation.

With a voice as light as air, there could be no question of the speaker's identity. Hermione stopped in her tracks and was unsurprised to find the spirit, Luna, perched in a tree's low-hanging branches. She almost seemed to glow—soft, periwinkle eyes, so mystical that in some lights they even looked opalescent, and long waves of blonde hair, as white as the sand of the beach.

"Luna," Hermione replied with a small smile.

Dumbledore had rescued Luna soon after they'd first arrived on the island. A spirit of the air, she was one of the few creatures they'd encountered and bonded with on the island. Her magic was beautiful, her heart was kind, and Hermione found comfort in her.

And yet, every encounter had left her longing for a life she could only recall in dreams—a life of magic, and friendship, and wonder.

"Luna, how long have you been here?" Hermione suddenly thought to ask.

The spirit's pale face fell. "Only a few minutes; I promise I wasn't spying on you!"

"No," Hermione laughed. "No, I didn't mean that. I meant, how long have you been on this island? How long have you been trapped here?"

"Trapped?" Luna repeated in her dreamy voice, swinging her legs as she pondered the question. "But I haven't been trapped for twelve years! Dumbledore set me free from the tree as soon as he arrived, don't you remember?"

Luna regarded her with wide, innocent eyes.

Hermione did remember. Luna had been quite literally imprisoned in a tree when they'd arrived on the island, trapped by the deranged sorceress who had previously dwelled there—Bellatrix, they'd called her.

Hermione knew little of the dark sorceress, as she'd died long before she and Dumbledore had arrived, other than her imprisonment of Luna.

And, of course, Draco.

Draco, Bellatrix's nephew, was one of the other humanoid figures that dwelled on the island. What he was, Hermione couldn't quite be sure, but she knew he was far from human. He appeared human enough, despite the slight disfiguration of his face, and he possessed magic, no doubt, but where his heart should have been, there was nothing but darkness and maliciousness.

Hermione and Dumbledore had tried to take him in at first—to befriend him and teach him from the books they'd managed to bring with them—but having been raised by Bellatrix, he had a dark streak. He had turned on them, even going so far as to attempt to murder Dumbledore.

Thankfully, Draco had failed, and since then, had kept to his side of the island, never troubling them.

"I didn't mean the tree," Hermione explained to Luna. "I meant, how long have you been trapped here—on the island?"

Luna cocked her head. "But I'm not trapped? This island is my home. I'm perfectly free here."

Hermione sighed. "Okay, no, never mind."

"Where are you going?" Luna's twinkling voice followed Hermione as she continued on her way.

Hermione did not reply, for she herself wasn't entirely sure of what she was doing. But, still riled up from Dumbledore's complete lack of interest in ever leaving the island, she suddenly sought the advice of one she never would have previously turned to. Taking a breath, she clenched her fists to give herself an assurance of strength and strode into the part of the island where Draco dwelled.

Hell is empty and the devils are here.

He noticed her immediately, looking initially outraged by her approach. Even from a distance, Hermione could see the ugly scar that was raked across one side of his face. She had never known the tale of its origins; she had thought it improper to ask.

"What," Draco growled, "do you want?"

His hair was a silvery sort of blond, almost like Luna's, but ravished by dirt. His eyes were nothing more than soulless, black pits. Maybe he had been human a long time ago.

Hermione gulped, forced strength into her body, and took a step forwards. She spoke in as confident and assured a voice as she could. "Draco," she began. He flinched at the use of his name. "I, err, wanted to talk to you."

"To talk to me?" he sneered, hopping down from the rock he'd been standing on and walking towards her. "Twelve years on this island, and you haven't spoken to me once."

"That's not true!" Hermione protested. "We used to spend a lot of time together when I first arrived."

"Until you ditched me."

"Until you tried to kill Dumbledore!"

Draco was now only about ten feet away from her. Hermione could see now that his eyes were not black and soulless as she had assumed, but just a very deep blue, and with the slight hint of a twinkle.

Draco shook his head, dropping both his gaze and his voice. "It wasn't like that…"

"I was there," Hermione retaliated furiously. "I saw it!"

"I only did the things I did because it's what Bellatrix wanted," Draco snarled, "not because I wanted to—that's why I couldn't even do it!"

"Bellatrix?" Hermione asked in confusion. "Your aunt? The dark sorceress? But she's dead—she never even knew Dumbledore."

"She did," Draco countered. "A long time ago, before even she was on the island, she knew him. He's the reason she was exiled here."

"What?"

Draco lifted his head to stare Hermione in the eyes again. So intense was his gaze that Hermione felt intimidated into taking a step back. "He never told you the story? Twelve years, and he never once said anything?"

"N—no," Hermione stuttered, her mind and emotions in overdrive.

"Dumbledore's not who you think he is," Draco said coldly.

"What do you mean?"

"He sacrificed a lot in order to become the greatest, most powerful wizard in the world," Draco began to explain. "Friends, family…"

Hermione gulped but said nothing.

"He'd send them here to die once he conquered them. The dark wizards, Voldemort, Grindelwald—plenty of others—and those who associated with them. My aunt—she was one of the witches who served Voldemort, and so, she was sent here. It wasn't just her; it was all of them. They all wanted me to kill Dumbledore, to finally end his tyranny."

Hermione didn't know what to say. She knew Dumbledore. She looked up to him – he was practically a father to her. He was all she had.

"But how did anybody know he'd come here?"

"His brother—Aberforth—he's the one who set it all up. He's the reason you're here. He created a tempest—a huge, unruly storm to drive him out and use that as a means to shipwreck him. It was only by chance that Dumbledore brought you with him. They wanted to be rid of Dumbledore. A man with a past as dark and twisted as his isn't fit to run a school."

"His own brother?" Hermione gulped.

"They've had bad blood for years."

"Then why send food, and water, and books?"

Draco paused briefly. "That wasn't Aberforth. I imagine it was someone who sided with Dumbledore, who pitied him. McGonagall, perhaps?"

Hermione shook her head, refusing to believe it was true. "Albus Dumbledore is a good man," she firmly declared, "and he belongs at Hogwarts, despite his past. He's a new man; he's turned a new leaf!"

"He doesn't want to go back," Draco reminded her. "He's content here. Here, he can hide from his past and turn his back on his troubles."

"We need him at Hogwarts," Hermione growled. "We can go back, there has to be a way. And you could come to," she said enthusiastically. "And maybe Luna, and—"

"What makes you think I want to go?" Draco interrupted, eyebrows raised in amusement.

Hermione looked at him in disbelief. "Hogwarts is a dream," she insisted. "Magic, wonder—it's anybody's dream!"

"A dream," Draco repeated quietly.

"We go by boat," Hermione insisted, growing ever more excited. "There has to be some way to leave the island. We could—"

"You leave the same way you came."

"What?"

"You need a boat," Draco explained, "you need a wizard, and you need a storm."

Hermione's heart was racing wildly. Finally, finally, they could go back. Twelve years she'd waited for this, and finally, it was happening. "We have a wizard," Hermione said excitedly. "We have a boat, albeit in need of repair—but that shouldn't be too difficult to fix. If we used magic, it wouldn't be a problem. But…" Her heart sank. "A storm?"

"Not just any storm," Draco said wisely.

"What kind of storm, then?"

"A tempest."

"And how," Hermione demanded, "are we supposed to just magically make a huge, violent storm—"

"Maybe something like this."

Before Hermione could question what he meant, Draco had drawn something from his pocket. It looked, at a glance, to be a stick. Long, slender, sturdy, he aimed it directly above his head at the cloudless sky.

Hermione was at a loss for words, completely in awe. Not just a stick, she realised, but a wand.

"But how—?"

Draco gave her a knowing look and the slight flicker of a smile. "Hold tight," he ordered. A burst of light shot from his wand up into the sky like a bolt of lightning. A huge, deafening, cracking noise shook the whole island.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, staring up at the sky as clouds began to form and swirl. A fork of lightning flashed so brightly that her whole vision was temporarily blinded. Another groan of thunder, and suddenly, she was cast into pitch black darkness.

Hermione awoke with a start as the next wave of thunder crashed outside, shaking the Gryffindor Tower so violently that she actually felt the walls move. Her heart had accelerated to a near-terrifying pace.

She looked around the room in confusion, swiftly moving her head from side to side as she tried to place her surroundings.

Lightning flashed again, briefly illuminating her dorm room. She saw her roommate's Holyhead Harpies scarf strewn across the floor amongst witch gossip magazines and her own textbooks.

A quill was on the floor by her bed, alongside an upturned inkwell. Grappling for the wand on her bedside table, Hermione cast the Lumos Charm. Immediately, the room was cast into a faint glow.

One of her roommates groaned at the new light source from the opposite bed. Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, darted around the side of her bed, looking incredibly guilty, and covered in black ink.

Hermione looked to the window. The rain was still hammering on the windowpane, showing no signs of stopping.

She looked back to the floor where her stacks of books had been disturbed. One, in particular, caught her eye. Not a textbook, at all, but a bit of light reading she'd brought with her to remind her of home.

William Shakespeare's The Tempest.

Hermione extinguished the light, placed her wand back on her bedside table, and lay back down. Her eyes eventually fluttered shut.

The storm raged on.

"…and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again."

Originally written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 3—Round 9

Team: Holyhead Harpies
Position: Captain
Task: Base your entry on one of Shakespeare's plays (The Tempest)