DISCLAIMERS: "both blessed with beauty and rage" is from Ultraviolence - Lana del Rey | "it vanishes into nothing or into everything" - from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So I'm not quite sure what this is? ichigopan's 'Meaning Behind the Word' challenge on HPFT gave me the prompt explosion and that combined with all of the posts i've seen about the myth of Persephone on tumblr recently to make whatever this is. The characters aren't so much the Greek gods as themselves, simply playing replacements (Dumbledore is the shining example of this). That being said, they are probably a little OOC from canon given the nature of the one shot, but I don't think it's crippling or anything.

(also sorry to greek mythology buffs because it is likely that i have butchered the myth)

stolen

There is an explosion that rocks the ground. It causes clouds of smoke to blast into the air, vicious swirls of dust and grit. The earth roars as its fissures deepen into cracks, both wild and wide, and those cracks form an arrow whose head points directly to her.

Hermione watches.

She waits.

She is crouched down like she so often is, bare fingers trailing in the loose powder of the ground - it is as red as a maiden's blush while she is a deep brown - and her new dress spilling over her knees. She is curious yet cautious, interested yet ready to run.

When the dust settles, there is a boy. Or a man. Or neither.

He is an amalgamation of contrasts: razor-sharp features with rounded, pouty lips, and pale skin offset by his midnight curls. Flowers are weaved into his clothes, each petal as dark as sin and crumbling into the breeze, a sad imitation of charm. The whites of his eyes only serve to darken his black irises - they scream of death yet are so full of raw energy and life, and Hermione is instantly intrigued.

I don't know you," she finally says.

"Nor I you." His voice is a liquid baritone. "Though I admit I should like to."

"Is that why you tore the earth apart?" she asks with a note of amusement. She indicates the damage with dusty fingers and tosses her hair back. "Was it an act of impatience or to impress me?"

An eyebrow rises; it is the flick of a penknife. "Which pleases you more?"

"Neither. The earth never did you wrong. There was no reason to destroy it."

"Well, in that case, I extend my sincerest apologies to the earth." He smiles and his smile promises danger. Bloodshed. When he speaks, his voice is lower, the murmur of a lover. "I should like to know you."

Hermione blinks.

And she runs.

fiori di morti

When the door next opens, a goblet soars through the air. For a brief instant, the wine spilling from it forms a bridge of red droplets suspended above, before it cascades as a waterfall to drown the fur rugs littering the room. The goblet smashes against the wall.

"Was that truly necessary?"

Hermione snarls. "Let me out of here!" She reaches for the silver platter next, though it is in vain - with a mere snap of his fingers, it vanishes into nothing (or into everything, she is not entirely sure).

"You are entirely too dramatic," he informs her, shutting the door behind him with the heel of his foot.

"You have me confined in your little hell!" she snaps, hands searching for another weapon. He snaps his fingers and rids the room of them all

"You are hardly in chains."

Hermione stops her fruitless mission. Spinning around, she spits through gritted teeth, "You kidnapped me."

"Semantics," he replies with an airy wave of his hand.

A moment passes.

Then, she flies forward. She is small but her body collides into him like a missile, knocking him back against the door, and her hands are claws, her nails are talons, digging into his skin to draw blood. She is glorious in her fury. Her eyes are vicious, her hair is wild, her posture feral. Her mouth twists with victory as she claws her way to his heart.

And then he has her pinned against the wall, hands chaining her wrists.

"Hear me, Hermione." He breathes her name as if he owns it, as if he owns her. "I tolerate your insolence for my own amusement, allow you to play your silly little games... But if you ever think to strike me again, do not think that I will not find it within myself to snap your delicate wrists. I will do it upon each birth of the moon and each death of the sun and you will truly know confinement then."

She says nothing, only tries to free her wrists with a furious scream. He holds on tighter.

"We are not in your home, sweet one. The Underworld is my kingdom and I control all - no one can stop me from destroying you." His smile promises bloodshed. "Of course, I would rather not travel to such lengths. After all, I should like to know you... And I can hardly do that if you die."

Her struggle ceases.

For she is Hermione - she watches and she waits. She knows when to strike with unrelenting force and she knows when to retreat for another day. And despite her hatred for him, she must see another day. At almost any cost imaginable.

"I'm sorry," she breathes, defeated.

"To whom?" His grip on her wrists threatens to crush her bones. "To your mother? To Albus? To whom?"

"To you," she gasps, the pain pulsing through her arms. "To Tom."

When he smiles, there is no joy in the world. Only the sorrows of the lost souls around them and the bitter taste of defeat on her tongue. Oh, and when he smiles, several stained petals - aconite, anemone, asphodel - cascade from his mouth and drown her in blood.

a throne of thorns

Days have passed, or months. She sprawls on the bed in a daze, still clothed in the dress she wore the day Tom tore her from the world. It is white and streaked with dirt, which she thinks is fitting of her existence. Her dress is soiled along with her freedom, her innocence.

To his credit, Tom claims her in every way but of the body.

He possesses her with words, mouth wrapping around her name as if he was made to speak it. He possesses her with gifts - chests dripping with necklaces of obsidian, gowns of rippling silk, feasts of venison and fruit - and they are all left to rot and dust over. He possesses her in confinement, giving her freedom of the castle in all of its cold glory, chains on its front doors and windows without latches.

But he is no haste to claim her body.

Hermione has no doubt that he intends to eventually, though not for love. Perhaps he even waits for the day she invites him in herself, but until then, he merely serves her in compliments and indulges her in conversation. Allows her the luxury of her own bedchambers.

"You have kidnapped me for no purpose," she tells him one day.

His teeth slide into the apple in his hand. He swallows and licks his lips. "That is a lie."

"Then, you kidnapped me for company," she says, narrowing her eyes. She looks like a lionness yet she is his prey. "Someone to entertain you."

"This may be the Underworld, but we do have entertainment," he replies. "You might've known that, had you joined me for dinner once in a while. Instead, I have the dull task of bringing your meals to you."

"I don't want it."

"Oh, but the fruit is delightful. You will never want to leave once you have a taste." He smirks.

"And if I do, I never will leave," she says, a steely tone to her voice. She is tiptoeing along the boundaries of her cage, testing its strengths to see how far he will bend. She is in luck; he is the mood to humour her tonight. "Which is what you want, isn't it?"

"What I want is for someone other than myself to know the juice of this apple."

Hermione flares her nostrils. "Oh, and this is why you kidnapped me? For approval of your gardening skills?"

Tom raises an eyebrow. He leans forward, the movement as graceful as a snake's. His smile promises danger and he speaks slowly. "No. I stole you because I want a queen."

keeper of oaths

"No."

Far from being deterred, Albus merely looks amused. Infuriatingly so. He is a stranger to these lands yet he looks oddly serene in the courtroom, a pale flame against the cold coal of the castle. His white robes irritate Tom - white is a colour reserved for her, she who imprisons herself in her room and refuses his food, even as her mouth waters for life and growth. She who claims to despise him yet entertains his visits, just enough to assuage her temptations. She who, despite her adamance, is slowly unravelling in his hands.

"You've had your fun, my dear boy," Albus begins.

Rage erupts through him. Blooming petals tear away from him in a flurry as he shoots up from his feigned casual sprawl on his throne. His voice trembles with the fury of a thousand gods.

"Boy?" he snarls. "Boy? You forget whose lands you are in, Albus. I am no mere boy, I am a king. And she is my queen."

"Not yet," he says, as calm as a summer's day.

"Then, we shall wed tonight if needs be! I do not care whether I have to burn your strongholds down - she is not leaving," he whispers furiously. His eyes, black and terrible, warn of a coming storm.

Albus sighs. "I am sorry to do this, but she must."

Tom laughs. It is an awful sound, one which echoes with the screams of the dead. The room chills, their breaths escape them as mist. His laughter threatens to engulf the flickering flame that is Albus, a solitary candle of warmth in the centre of hopelessness, and snuff him out. More petals fall from Tom's clothes, each bloodier than the last.

"The great Albus Dumbledore," he mocks. "Keeper of Iron-Clad Oaths, Protector of Promises - excepting, of course, his very own."

"I know what I promised-"

"You promised me a queen," he hisses, pointing a long, accusatory finger. It is as white as bone. "And I chose."

As always, Albus' expression suggests that he is just as helpless as Tom. The look has never failed to irritate him - does he appear to be so mindless that he would believe that the one man with everyone under his thumb can't exercise his power? Albus is at perfect liberty to quieten his pathetic lackeys with so much as a single look.

And yet...

"Her mother is being difficult."

"Kill her."

"You know as well as I do that is not feasible," Albus replies, a mere rise of his eyebrows hinting at his displeasure. "We need her mother or mankind will perish. And with the end of mankind, there will be no more souls for you to preside over and therefore no true need for you."

"Is that a threat?" His face contorts and he is both blessed with beauty and rage. "You dare-"

"Oh, it is no threat." When Albus speaks, his tone chides. Tom would like nothing more than to strangle it away. "Merely a reminder that we need Hermione's mother. And she needs Hermione."

"We do not need her mother. You forget, Albus, that the Underworld is not all I rule. It is I who presides over the hidden wealth of the earth... That includes fertile soil if you will recall. With Hermione by my side, we have no use for her mother. Kill her."

"And you believe that Hermione will aid you once she discovers the death of her mother?" When Tom does not dignify that with an answer, he concludes, "She must return to us. There truly is no other way, not without starting a war and war is a terrible thing, indeed. You know that as well as I... This may be of little comfort to you, but remember that I do not do this out of spite, my dear b-"

"Do not say it," he says harshly. "You call me that vile word once more and I will tear your tongue out of your mouth, I promise. And I, for one, keep to my word."

a fold of hands

Her time away from the sun has done her well. Before, she was simply curious yet cautious; now, she is wise and suspicious. When he brings the news of her impending departure, her immediate response is not to rejoice, but to question his motives.

"And you're going to let me leave?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

He will miss those eyes. Such a deep brown, the colour of the earth after a light spring rain. They speak volumes, betraying her every emotion, even as she thinks herself unreadable - they are slits in her ire, as warm as a lover's kiss when she forgets her hatred for him, as distant as the sky when she thinks of home.

"It appears so," he murmurs, trying to stifle his anger. The knowing glance she throws him suggests that he has failed in this respect. "It seems your mother has called in quite the favour."

"Albus. Of course."

She smiles and he hates it. Mouth twisting into a scowl, he leans forward threateningly. She has not broken her chains just yet and she should do well to remember that.

"Of course, I may change my mind," he warns her and his eyes glint when the joy fades from hers. "After all, the lengths I travelled to should not prove fruitless. It will hardly be fair that way."

She is considerably less confident when she says, "They'll start a war if you don't let me go."

"If only it was so, sweet one. If your words are true, why has a war not already been waged? I stole you and their only reply was silence until today. You are clearly not as treasured as you believe you are."

"And if what you propose is true, you would've ignored Albus," she retorts, voice sharp in her insecurity. "Instead, you're releasing me from this damn hell tomorrow morning."

He shrugs and offers her a secretive smile. It promises danger; it promises bloodshed. "For now."

eleutheria

There is an explosion that rocks the ground. It causes clouds of smoke to blast into the air, vicious swirls of dust and grit. The earth roars as its fissures deepen into cracks, both wild and wide, and it shifts rapidly underneath her bare feet

Hermione watches.

She waits.

She is crouched down like she so often is, bare fingers trailing in the loose powder of the ground - it is grey with neglect, littered with black petals from the clothes of the boy beside her - and her faded dress spilling over her knees. She is keen yet careful, impatient and ready to run.

When the dust settles, there is a woman. And a man. Several.

The first is the only one who truly matters, however. She is a familiar fold of arms at the end of a harrowing day, a soft kiss on the brow. Warmth spreads through Hermione at the sight of her dark curls and smooth, mahogany skin, even the tired red to her eyes. Flowers are weaved into her cloak, fading to the palest blues, pinks and yellows, though they burst into cornflower blues, dusty pinks and golds before her very eyes.

"Mother," she cries, and she is running.

She falls into her arms with a soft exclamation of joy and presses her face into the comfort of her mother's scent, fresh freesias and spring streams. And then, with a laugh, she spins out of her embrace and tilts her face to the sky. A winter sun kisses her skin, caresses the wild tresses of her hair, smiles at her pure unadulterated elation.

She does not even care that he is there.

"Come," says her mother, soft but sure. A slim, brown hand reaches for her chin. "I want to look to look at you and I don't ever want to stop."

Hermione turns in time to see the mask of fear slip onto her mother's face. "What is it?" she asks. There is a weight attached to her ankle, dragging her down from her dizzying height of happiness.

"Your mouth," she whispers, trembling with terror. "It - your lips are redder than before."

She reels backwards. Her hand rises to them and comes away, smeared with red. "That - it's not possible. I didn't eat, I didn't touch anything! I knew what the consequences would be!"

Viciously, she spins around to face Tom. He has not moved from the crater, but now he tilts his head to the side, locks of hair falling into his eyes, dark as they are with amusement. A distinctly triumphant expression contorts his face and he is gloriously sinful.

"You," she hisses.

He smiles and his smile promises danger. Bloodshed. When he speaks, his voice is lower, the murmur of a lover. "Till we meet again."

Hermione blinks.

And he's gone.

niké

When he enters the room, she is asleep.

She is asleep and she is vulnerable and she is beautiful. She rests on her back, seeking the feel of the freedom she is deprived of. Where Albus was a pale flame, she is a sun, illuminating the shadows of her bedchambers with a passion that burns bright. She may be adamant that her cage confines her, that she wastes away day by day, but he begs to differ - all it does is illuminate her to an extent she is woefully unaware of.

He leans over her.

He watches.

He waits.

When she shows no sign of stirring, his fingers rise to brush along her lips. The difference in the creation of them both is wonderous; where she is born of the earth, Tom is diamond cut sharp and rough with the strength of steel. And when he parts her lips, it is more than the possessive action of an victor collecting his prize. It is a king claiming his queen.

He slides the pomegranate seeds onto her tongue.

And she is his.

fin.

remember to review, lovely folks.

xo

(also, lmao, albus dumbledore replaced zeus. #so similar.)